


Cult-de-Sac

by BlueMorpho (OldToadWoman)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-11
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-30 22:29:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 45,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldToadWoman/pseuds/BlueMorpho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Castiel go undercover in an insulated family community to investigate the bizarre and gruesome death of a married couple. Hijinks ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amilyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amilyn/gifts).



> Written for the LJ Trope-a-thon prompt "[Pretending To Be Married In The Suburbs](http://tropeathon.livejournal.com/650.html)". This was not only written for the Trope-a-thon, but I took Amilyn's specific prompt of writing a _Supernatural_ story as an homage to the episode "Arcadia" of _The X Files_.
> 
> (mid season 5)
> 
> additional tags: romantic schmoop, sexual language, sexual situations (but no actual sex), vessel-related consent issues dealt with, clichés, gratuitous swearing, children-in-jeopardy, horror, setting people on fire, badly-drawn bunnies 
> 
> (I originally marked this as "mature" due to the sexual language/situations, but that just led to disappointment from people who were expecting sex so I've downgraded it.)
> 
> Big thanks to my proofreaders: mtgat, amilyn, dotfic, and mihoriel. Any typos and plot holes that remain despite their efforts are entirely my own fault.

***** An X File *****

"You _are_ FBI, right?" Sherry asked warily.

They'd gotten through the first hour of the meeting without her questioning their credentials and then Sam had started talking about Arcadian demons and X files.

"We're more what you call outside contractors," Dean hedged. "But we are definitely working with the FBI's files on this."

"That was a TV show," she said.

"Yeah." Dean smiled. It worked on most women. "The funny thing is--" 

"On FOX," she added. For some reason that made it sound worse.

"The FBI _does_ keep files on supernatural, occult, and unexplained phenomenon," Sam explained.

"Primarily on the cults and crazies who _believe_ in that sort of thing," Dean added quickly. "And the FBI isn't known for creativity, hence 'X' file."

He kicked Sam in the ankle and the kid finally seemed to understand that he needed to dial it down a notch. "If your sister and her husband were killed by a cult that believed in demons or sorcery," Sam said, "it would help us to know more about those beliefs."

"I saw that episode," she said, still looking very unconvinced. "That's the one where Mulder and Scully pretended to be married in the suburbs. The ad kind of made you think that they might actually get together, but they didn't."

"Don't you hate that?" Dean shook his head in sympathy. "They always lead you on like that and then it never happens."

"The point--" Sam began.

"But it was just an episode of a TV show," she insisted. "No one would start a cult based on an episode of a TV show."

"Ma'am," Dean deadpanned. "You don't even want to see our files on _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_."

Sam huffed faintly. "And just to be clear, belief in demons and the occult predates popular culture's interest in them. Many books and movies and even television programs are based on folklore dating back thousands of years."

Okay, credit to the kid for pulling her back in, because she was taking them seriously again.

"Suzanne never told me about the church, just that there _was_ one. It only struck me odd because she'd never been religious. Suzi'd never shown any interest in living in the suburbs either. When Mark first said he'd been transferred out to the middle of nowhere she was upset, but when she actually got to Thorncraft she just loved everything about the place. That's all she talked about. The bake sales and the music in the park and the gardening. My baby sister, gardening! I never would have imagined Suzi gardening, but she sent pictures! It was like suburbia _was_ her cult. She never talked about _believing_ anything though. They lived there almost two years and there was never a hint of anything wrong. I visited for Thanksgiving one year and it was like a Norman Rockwell painting had come to life, you know. It was _perfect_." 

Sherry rubbed her arms as if she'd gotten cold. "And then she called to ask if they could stay with me. She said they couldn't stay in Thorncraft any longer because it cost too much. I didn't understand, because she'd bragged before about how much more affordable Thorncraft was than New York had been. And that's when she told me they'd kill her if she explained."

"And you're sure that wasn't just a figure of speech?" Sam asked.

"She said they'd _kill_ her. The Mad Hatters would kill her. And I could hear Mark in the background, telling her to hurry, telling her that unless she had changed her mind, they had to go _now_." Sherry waved her hands in the air helplessly as her eyes welled up. "And the next call was from the police telling me they were dead, _burned_."

"We've read the police report," Dean said gently. "You don't need to describe that."

Mark and Suzanne Jefferson had gotten roughly three miles out of Thorncraft when their car had burst into flames. They hadn't hit anything. There was no sign of a mechanical malfunction. According to witnesses and security camera footage, the _inside_ of the car just filled with flames. Lit from within, but seemingly undamaged without, the vehicle drifted to the side of the road where it gradually came to rest. Before emergency crews could respond, the fire engulfed the entire car. When they finally put the fire out, there was nothing left but metal and bone.

Sherry took a deep breath. "When I got the letter from the homeowners association about the house, I kind of freaked. I started asking around. It sounds a little crazy now, but when you're posting things on the Internet at two o'clock in the morning, it almost makes sense to be asking if anyone knows anything about homeowners association cults." She laughed nervously.

Sam smiled. That tended to work on the women Dean's smile hadn't worked on. "It was a smart thing to do," Sam reassured her. "That's how we found you."

Dean read the letter again. It said Homeowners Association Thorncraft and a clipart picture of a hat was pasted to the left of the acronym. It was "cute" in a forced way that wasn't at all. 

HAT expressed condolences for her loss and, in the very next sentence, HAT told her that she had ninety days to comply with HAT occupancy rules. The property could not be left vacant. She could not herself move into the house without meeting HAT residency guidelines, which included, among other things, being married. She couldn't even sell the house to anyone who didn't also meet HAT guidelines. Exactly ninety days after her sister's death, the property would revert back to HAT itself and they would pay her fair compensation for it.

"It would be easiest to just let them take the house," Sherry said. "Their offer is more than fair given the current market. But-- _Mad Hatters?_ What else could she have meant?"

"There's only one way to know for sure," Dean said.

Sam shook his head. "I met with the head of the homeowners association yesterday. They won't let me buy the house from Sherry. Mr. Jones was firm. Married couples only. Preferably newlyweds."

Sometimes the kid had no imagination. "You just walked in there and offered to buy the house?"

"Yeah. And they were adamant. It's in the contract Mark and Suzanne signed. The property cannot be sold to singles."

"Is that legal?"

"I don't think single men are a protected group for fair housing."

"And since you walked right in and introduced yourself, we can't pass you off as Sherry's fiancé. Nice going."

"Oh, no. I don't care how cute you are. That is not happening." Sherry shook her head vehemently. "I am _not_ moving into that house. _You_ are the professional FBI contractors. Send in your own Mulder and Scully. I will sell the house to whomever you tell me to, but that's it. That's as involved as I get."

  
*****Smart Lady, Slow Brother *****   


"That was a smart lady," Dean said. "She complicated things for us, seeing as how it would have been a lot easier if she and I could have just shown up as a couple, what with her already knowing her way around the place, but a smart lady."

"What do we do now?"

"Sherry won't move in there, so the only option is to pose as an outside buyer."

"I tried that."

"Without a cover story."

"Who are you going to get to play your wife? All the women we know are either dead or evil."

"Or the ever popular dead _and_ evil," Dean agreed.

"And Sherry's right. We can't endanger someone who isn't a trained hunter."

"You really can't see how easy the solution to this is, can you?" Dean asked.

The kid looked confused. How did he ever get into college? The "smart one" could be as dense as a rock sometimes. 

"The solution is right in front of you. Think," Dean said. "I need to pretend to be a married man to buy a house in suburbia. I don't have a woman. What do I do?"

Sam frowned.

Sometimes you just had to literally spell it out for the kid. 

"L. I. E. _Lie_. I am going to _lie_."

  


***** No Lie *****  


"You're lying," the woman from HAT said. "Mr. _Emerson_ , I know when people are lying to me."

"It's Mary-Jane's special talent," Mr. Jones added.

And Dean knew when he was talking to a crazy freak job. That was _his_ special talent. But she'd immediately called him out on his "new" car (it was a rental) and his reason for being late (he hadn't been caught behind an accident). She'd nodded when he'd claimed he wanted to move to Thorncraft due to business (which was true in a sense). And now she clearly knew he'd given a false name.

Sherry was fidgeting with an empty coffee cup and she kept turning to stare out the window. In a completely dickhead move, the HAT people had suggested they meet at the Denny's a few miles from Thorncraft, which turned out to be just down the road from the spot where the Jeffersons' car had gone supernova. Dean recognized the area from the surveillance footage that Sammy hacked. He'd hoped Sherry wouldn't know, but, as they passed the turnoff for Route 17, she gasped and pointed to a blackened ring of grass off the side of the road. 

You couldn't actually see it from the Denny's, but she kept turning and looking anyway. If he didn't bring this meeting to a quick end, she was going to lose it. 

He didn't know _how_ the HAT lady was doing it, but he was smart enough to know that he needed to switch tactics fast.

"I'm sorry, Mr.  & Mrs. Jones. I should not have lied to you."

Mr. Jones shook his head. "Good heavens. I'd have to be quite the cradle robber for this to be Mrs. Jones. Mary-Jane is my _daughter_ , Mr. Emerson."

It didn't make her any less creepy. Dean smiled at him. "I'm going to be straight with you. My real name is Dean Winchester. Sherry mentioned that you were pretty strict on who you let join the association and I _really_ want to be able to buy this house and I, well, I have something of a colorful past. I guess I got overeager and wanted to make a better impression." He waved at the luxury car parked outside. "I assure you though, Mr. Jones, Miss Jones, my youthful high spirits do not reflect on my current ability to be an upstanding homeowner."

"A colorful past?" she asked. "No laws were broken, I trust."

"Laws may have _technically_ been broken, but nothing--" Dean frantically tried to think of a word that wouldn't cross the line into total bullshit. "--nothing ill-intentioned." 

"Are we talking about college boy shenanigans?" Mr. Jones asked.

_Among other things_. "Yes."

Mary-Jane squinted at him, so he added, "I never attended college myself, but I definitely visited a sorority house or two in my day."

"Nothing more serious? No violence?" Mr. Jones asked.

Thinking _very_ carefully, Dean answered slowly, "I would never willingly harm a living human being except in defense of myself or others."

Mr. Jones glanced at his daughter who gave a slight nod.

"Of course," she said, "we have to meet your wife before the association will give final approval to your application."

"That could be a slight problem. You see, my wife is--" He had a great story planned involving a sick grandfather and a busy career as a jet-setting travel writer. "--not here and I'm not exactly sure when I can arrange--"

His phone rang. Beautiful timing. He should have planned ahead and thought to ask Sam to call at a prearranged time as an escape route, but he'd accept a coincidental call from Castiel just as well.

"Hey, Cas, how are you doing, sweetie?"

Castiel hesitated only briefly. "I'm fine. I'm calling because Sam said--"

"Oh, I know you're very busy, honey. And I know you're sorry you can't be here, but I understand. No need to apologize."

Mary-Jane was watching him and frowning. Dean realized this was going to be very tricky.

"Is that your wife?" Mr. Jones asked, brightening. "Her name is Cassie? Tell Cassie I can arrange a special meeting on a Saturday if her work schedule is too demanding."

"Cassie, love? Are you free on Saturday?" Dean asked, feeling cornered. He'd have to come up with something else before Saturday, but right now he just needed to get out of here.

"Do you need me now?" Castiel asked.

"No, no, Cas, honey, I do _not_ need you to drop everything now. Please do not trouble yourself." _Crap!_ That's the only thing that could make this mess worse. A woman who could tell when you're lying _and_ an angel who couldn't keep his mouth shut.

"Does Cassie need the address of the Denny's?" Mr. Jones asked helpfully.

"What's going on?" Castiel asked. 

The Joneses startled. They hadn't heard Castiel walk up behind them. Dean knew they hadn't heard it because it didn't happen. Castiel was just there. He had to stop doing that. It was just good luck that Sherry had been staring out the window again.

The Joneses turned and looked behind them at the man in the trench coat who was only just now pulling the cellphone away from his ear. 

"I'm sorry. Who are you?" Mary-Jane asked.

"My name is Castiel."

" _You're_ Cassie?" Mr. Jones asked.

Dean thought up a great lie on the spot. Castiel was Cassie's _brother_ and of course it didn't matter because Mary-Jane would know he was lying and that turned out not to matter either because Castiel would have blown it anyway.

"Castiel," he corrected her. "Dean, you sounded very strange on the phone. What's going on?"

Dean sighed and shook his head. He really, really wished the world appreciated how much effort he put into protecting it. He threw his hands up melodramatically. "Aw, you ruined the surprise!"

"Surprise?"

"I was going to wait until I knew for sure I had the house before I said anything." He aimed an aw-shucks grin at the Joneses. "Now you see why I was nervous about telling the truth on the application. I _really_ don't want to have to drag the Fair Housing Act into this."

He jumped up and pulled Castiel into a tight hug and whispered into his ear, "Play along or I swear I will tear you into thousands of tiny little pieces and feed you to a hamster."

He stepped back and dropped to one knee. "Castiel, will you marry me?"

The entire Denny's was watching. It was all up to Castiel now and Castiel had the combined acting talent of a class of second graders, only half of whom had even attempted to learn their lines and one of whom was about to pee himself.

"I don't know what to say," Castiel said woodenly. "This is all very sudden."

"Say 'yes'" Dean said with a smile that was mainly grimace and threat. 

"Yes."

The most important thing now was making sure that Castiel did not say _anything_ else so Dean stood up and planted a wet sloppy kiss on him. For once, Castiel took the hint because he kissed back quite convincingly.

  


***** Making It Official *****  


"Tell me what happened again?" Sam asked. He was laughing so hard his face was red.

"I've told you three times already."

"And it gets funnier _every_ time."

"When you met with Mr. Jones before," Dean asked, ignoring him, "are you _sure_ he didn't have any truth mojo going on? Because if everyone in Thorncraft can tell when you're lying, we are totally screwed."

Sam shrugged. "I gave him a fake name. Told him I made a lot of money as an investment banker. Plus the usual white lies exchanged as pleasantries. He might have known I was lying, but he didn't let on or seem suspicious if he did." Sam gave up on him and turned back to Castiel. "He actually got down on one knee?"

Castiel nodded.

"I kind of made a veiled threat about discrimination. We might actually have a shot at this. No one wants to drag lawyers into things if they don't have to."

"This isn't going to work," Castiel said. "Even if this woman is the only one there who can see through lies, I don't improvise very well."

"We noticed," Sam and Dean both said. Dean found this fact especially annoying given the fact that every other angel he'd met lied like a champ. 

"Look," Dean said. "We just have to get approved. Once I'm in, Cas can skedaddle and I'll tell everyone he's busy."

"And he actually kissed you?" Sam asked Castiel.

Castiel nodded again.

"Was there tongue?"

"So we just need to figure out how to get through the final approval meeting next week," Dean said loudly, making a point of stepping between Sam and Castiel. "I talked to Mary-Jane Jones on the phone to arrange everything and the good news is that she does not seem to be able to do her lie detector act if she's not face-to-face. I also told her Cas is timid around new people and _doesn't talk very much_."

Dean glowered meaningfully at Castiel, but he wasn't convinced he got it so he repeated it plainly. "You do not talk unless you have to, got it?"

Castiel nodded.

"It's just a six-person board apparently, so we don't have to face a full association member vote," Dean said. "Six people. Cas doesn't talk. How hard can this be?"

"And when someone asks you and Cas about your wedding plans?"

"If we're lucky, they won't."

Sam rolled his eyes at him. "Dean, you proposed to him in front of them. They expect the two of you to be married by the time you move in. Engaged couples talk about their impending weddings. Even shy ones." 

"We'll just--"

"What's your color scheme? What kind of cake? How many bridesmaids? What's the venue? Where are you going for your honeymoon? Have you hired a band for the reception yet?"

"You are making this way too complicated," Dean said.

"Weddings _are_ complicated," Sam said. "Who's doing the flowers? Do you have the invitations yet? Have you--"

"No!" Dean interrupted. " _People_ make weddings complicated. Weddings do not need to be complicated. You know how they used to do this? You take a running leap over a fire. Done. One symbolic act to make it official and done. You do not need ice sculptures and champagne to finalize a marriage."

"Like it or not--" Sam began.

"No. Here. We'll take care of this now." Dean stomped out of their hotel room and several minutes later he came back carrying several packages of Twinkies. He was followed by a very confused motel maid.

"You have mess?" she asked. "I clean?"

He set the Twinkies down on top of the television. "The cake," he announced, "was a sponge cake with a special cream filling."

Sam laughed.

"The wedding was a small private affair attended only by family and our very good friend--" He glanced at the maid's name tag. "--Olga."

"Olga. Yes. I clean. You have mess? I clean."

"The actual ceremony--" He tried to take the broom from Olga, but she held on firmly.

" _I_ clean. You show mess. _I_ clean."

He gently pulled the handle from her fingers and motioned for her to sit on the end of the bed next to Sam. "It's okay. You have a seat there. We just need to borrow this for a moment."

"The actual ceremony," Dean said, "was a very traditional one." 

Dean put the broom on the floor at Castiel's feet.

"You want to jump over a broom?" Castiel asked.

"Simple and traditional," Dean said. "Come on. Hop." 

Dean hopped over the broom. Castiel just stood there and stared at it.

"Come on," Dean repeated. "Hop." 

Dean hopped again. Castiel continued to stare at the broom. 

"It's either this or I start a bonfire in the parking lot. This is really the least painful option. Hop." 

Dean began hopping back and forth over the broom. When logic and reason don't seem to be working, sometimes enthusiasm and repetition will get the job done. He glanced back at Sam and Olga for encouragement. "Hey. Hey, now. No YouTube videos! Sammy."

Sam put his hand over Olga's cell phone. She seemed mildly disappointed that she'd lost her proof of how fucking crazy her job could get some days, but she was still giggling. Sam was grinning ear-to-ear.

Castiel hopped.

"There! Done!" Dean said.

"Doesn't count," Sam said.

"How does that not count? We both jumped over the broom. You are both our witnesses."

"You have to jump together. If I'm going to be the official witness, I have to witness simultaneous hopping. I did _not_ witness simultaneous hopping. Olga, did _you_ witness simultaneous hopping?"

"Hop again!" Olga said clapping. There was no telling if she had a clue what was going on, but Dean figured that if _he_ cleaned toilets for a living, he'd probably be up for any diversion too.

"Fine." Dean grabbed Castiel's hand. "Together."

They hopped.

"Now you have to kiss," Sam said.

Dean grabbed a Twinkie and threw it at Sam's head. "Eat your damned wedding cake."

"Dean, let me be the first to say," Sam said, still grinning, "that you are going to regret this."

"Why?"

"He's very literal you know. And, Cas," Sam said, "welcome to the family. I have a feeling you're going to regret this even more."

Dean handed the broom back to Olga and sent her out the door with a Twinkie.

  


***** end of chapter one *****  



	2. Chapter 2

***** The Thorncraft Zone *****

Mary-Jane and her father Steve Jones picked Dean and Castiel up in front of their hotel, the hotel where they'd claimed to be staying at any rate. It was the Marriott across the lot from the Denny's where they'd had their first meeting so Dean hoped that would take care of any lingering questions about how Castiel just happened to drop in on them so quickly. 

Thorncraft wasn't just a gated community. It was a walled fortress--except the walls weren't formed of wood or brick, but massive thorn hedges at least twenty feet high. A few rooftops and a church steeple were visible from the outside at a distance. But as they approached, the view was nothing but thorns. It reminded Dean of Sleeping Beauty's castle. 

The hedgerow formed a square roughly a mile and a half on each side. Sam had gotten excited by the numbers when he'd converted the measurements into cubits. Something about sixty being an important divisor. Dean hadn't paid attention. Numerology was always a headache and, as far as Dean could tell, a waste of time. The number three figured prominently in many religions and cults, but so did two (pairs and opposites, and thus extending to all even numbers), four (and other perfect squares), five (pentacles), six (pairs of triplets and six-pointed stars), seven (lucky prime), nine (triple triplet), eleven (who knew why), twelve (tribes, apostles, doughnuts), thirteen (unlucky prime)... and every other fucking number up to infinity, because everything was divisible by a "mystic" number except the ones that weren't divisible by anything in which case, _Holy crap, it's a prime number and that must mean something._

And Sam had just been guessing ("Extrapolating," Sam had said testily) anyway. One more thing to add to the freaky list: the satellite image on Google was obscured by cloud cover. At the tightest zoom level available, you could just barely make out one of the corner gates and that was all.

At each corner of Thorncraft's square hedge-- _not_ , oddly enough, the cardinal directions most often favored by tradition--there was a massive wrought-iron gate.

Steve Jones drove Dean and Castiel up to the northeast gate and placed his hand inside a small wooden box on a post. The gate rolled open with a tolling clang.

"The gate operates on fingerprint recognition software or something?" Dean asked.

"Something like that," Mr. Jones said. "It only opens for Hatters."

Dean was not looking forward to putting his own hand in the box. "Hatters?" he asked. 

"Sorry. Inside joke. All the homeowners are members of the Housing Association of Thorncraft. HAT. Hatters."

That didn't exactly narrow down their list of suspects.

"What if we order a pizza delivery?" Dean asked.

Mr. Jones laughed. "Sal's has the best pizza in Thorncraft. You won't need to order out. Not that anyone would deliver this far anyway. Even the mail only goes as far as Villa Grove. You'll have to get a post office box there." 

As he spoke, he pulled inside the first gate. It was a double gate system, a lock. The inside gate remained closed until the outside gate had shut fully. For a moment they were completely trapped. The phrase "The Gates of Hell" popped into his head and he jumped when Castiel touched his shoulder. Castiel's eyes were bugged-out like Spongebob and when he had Dean's attention, he rolled them significantly toward the outside of the car. Dean couldn't tell what he was trying to tell him, but Castiel appeared frightened. _Not good_.

"There's a package-handling service in town that most of us use in lieu of a post office box," Mr. Jones continued. "They'll sign for UPS and FedEx deliveries as well. If you're not in a hurry, you can also sign up for their weekly home delivery. If you're expecting guests or have larger deliveries, you'll need to make arrangements. Stuart Fredericks lives closest to your nearest gate. He's usually happy to let guests in for you if you buy him the occasional beer. That's what keeps Thorncraft crime free. No one outside can enter without being let in by a Hatter. "

"Couldn't someone break through the bushes?"

"The hedgerow?" Mr. Jones laughed. "They'd have an easier time trying to hack through a brick wall. Don't think of the hedgerow as bushes. There are thorns in there that a could pierce a man's heart."

"So no trouble with vampires then?" Dean asked. He immediately realized he shouldn't be joking in front of Mary-Jane. The existence of vampires might be hard to explain.

Mr. Jones laughed again. "Trust me. _No one_ gets in without being let in one of the gates."

The disturbing part was that getting out looked just as difficult.

The inner gate opened and Mr. Jones drove them into Thorncraft.

"Wow." Dean was honestly impressed and didn't have to worry about faking that part.

The road curved slightly and residential streets branched off with no hint of a grid pattern. The road was lined with perfect curbs and perfect sidewalks and perfect lawns. They drove on into the heart of...the heart of a Norman Rockwell painting. He had imagined unbroken suburbia with row upon row of nothing but houses and green lawns and cul-de-sacs. The houses were here. The green lawns were here. The cul-de-sacs were probably here, though Mr. Jones was staying on the main road, which Dean now saw was labeled Mulberry Street. But it wasn't really _sub_ -urban at all. Every intersection had a corner store. Groceries, delis, hardware stores... _Was that a malt shop?_

"Sherry's description didn't do this place justice," Dean said. "This isn't just a housing development. This is a small town."

Mary-Jane said, "I've lived here my whole life so I take it for granted. Everyone who moves here says the same thing. It reminds them of _The Andy Griffith Show_ or _Leave it to Beaver._ "

Dean was thinking of another television show. It reminded him of _The Twilight Zone_.

  
***** Pimentos *****  


"Oooo, pimentos! I love pimentos!" Dean hated pimentos. Pimentos existed solely as a cruel form of food sabotage. Want to ruin a perfectly good slice of baloney? Riddle it with pimento. He popped a pimento-tainted olive into his mouth and tried not to gag. "Yum."

He choked down exactly six of the disgusting things, one for each of the housing association people in attendance. Mary-Jane Jones was the only one who called him on it, but young Robert Jones (no relation) visibly winced when Dean ate the olive. The others didn't seem to notice anything amiss. _So, two out of six. Better than all of them, but still tricky_.

"Mr. Winchester, please. I know you're anxious about this application review," Mary-Jane said. "I _was_ impressed with your enthusiasm. But you don't have to pretend to like everything we serve you. We have plenty of food here without pimentos in it."

"Dean. Call me Dean."

"Then you must call me Mary-Jane," she said. "It will be a lot easier that way."

She wasn't kidding. He went to rescue Castiel from a redhead who had him cornered with questions about their sudden wedding. Castiel was actually doing fairly well reciting his memorized explanation. "No point in putting if off... Very simple wedding... Traditional. _Very_ traditional... Small private ceremony... No time for a honeymoon now... Maybe for our anniversary." Castiel introduced him to Mrs. Joanna Jones (Mary-Jane's mother) and she in turn introduced him to Mrs. Deborah Jones.

The entire six-member review board turned out to consist of Joneses, two older married couples unrelated to each other and their grown children, Mary-Jane and Robert. Dean braced himself for the "Keeping up with the Joneses" jokes, which he imagined were going to be a staple in Thorncraft.

He had thought up several different cover stories for them. The one he hoped to use was the most vague. They traveled often (true) on business (true-ish) that was complicated (true) and hard to explain (very true). Unfortunately, Thorncraft was so isolated that it was implausible that someone who did a lot of commuting would be so eager to live here. Mary-Jane explained that nearly everyone here worked within Thorncraft either at a local business or via telecommuting to the outside world. And moreover, Robert had already said that he _looked forward_ to hearing their career plans as not all applicants had _viable ideas_ for their futures in Thorncraft.

So he had to think fast and it wasn't helping his powers of concentration any that Deborah Jones, despite being at least fifty years old, had an astonishingly impressive rack and was wearing a lacy little number that was both low cut and clingy in all the right places.

"Dean is in women's clothing," Castiel said. 

Dean's head snapped up. "What?"

"Mrs. Jones asked you what you did for a living," Castiel explained. "I was just telling her that you design clothing. Dean is always checking out the current hemlines and people are always getting the wrong idea."

It was a pretty clever line and he was impressed until he spotted the cellphone. "Are you talking to my brother?"

Castiel nodded. "I needed to ask his advice about...something."

He was slightly annoyed that Sam had had to rescue him, but it was still a good cover. It was the kind of work he could claim to do from home. All he had to do was scribble out some quick designs to be able to honestly say, "Yes, I draw clothing designs." He just had to be careful not to claim to be any _good_ at it. It also gave him a perfect excuse anytime someone found the gay guy's eyes roving toward their cleavage. _My what a lovely neckline you have, my dear._

"And you, Castiel?" Deborah Jones asked. "What do you do for a living?"

"He's a cartoonist," Dean announced with a grin.

"I'm a cartoonist," Castiel repeated into the phone.

Dean actually heard Sam's voice yell, " _What the fuck?!_ " It was _so_ worth it.

"A cartoonist?" Deborah repeated. "I've never met a cartoonist before. Mary-Jane, did you know that Castiel is a cartoonist?"

_Crap_. "Does anyone have a pen and paper?" Dean asked.

Steven Jones handed him a pen and Deborah found an old HAT flier. Dean quickly drew a stick figure and then drew a dress on top of it. _There, I design women's clothing_. Then he tore that corner off and handed the rest of the page to Castiel.

"Draw something."

"What do I draw?"

"I don't know. Something cute and cartoony. Draw a bunny."

The Joneses all gathered round as Castiel drew a bunny. Dean made a point of not looking. "Are you done?"

Castiel made a few more scribbles on the page. "Okay, done."

Dean took the page, flipped it around, and held it up for the others to see. He was very careful not to look at it himself. If he didn't look at it, he wasn't lying. "Isn't that the cutest bunny you've ever seen? Of course, he hasn't actually _sold_ any of his cartoons yet, but it's just a matter of time. I mean, I ask you, who wouldn't want to buy a T-shirt or a coffee mug with a cute bunny like that on it?"

The Joneses all nodded and agreed that it was a highly desirable bunny that was destined to be the next big commercial success. You didn't need to have super lie-detector powers to know what a load of crap that was.

On the whole, the Joneses seemed to think that a clothing designer and a cartoonist sounded like pleasant, or at least harmless, neighbors. Only Robert seemed hesitant and his objection wasn't something Dean had even considered ahead of time.

"What about children?" he asked.

"Children?" Dean repeated.

"The housing association charter requires you to send your children to the Thorncraft Academy. It's the key principle of our community. We all send our children to the same school. No outside schools, no home schooling."

"Well, as soon as I knock Cas up, we'll be sure to send the kid to Thorncraft Academy."

"I do not find sophomoric humor funny, Dean," Robert said stiffly.

"They can adopt," Deborah said, swatting her son lightly on the shoulder. "Now leave them alone. They're still only newlyweds. No one wants to think about diapers on their honeymoon. I, for one, am voting in favor of Dean and Castiel Winchester."

The final vote was four to one. Mary-Jane didn't vote, but merely shrugged when a majority had clearly been reached.

"I think this can work," Robert acknowledged, as he and Mary-Jane dropped them off outside the Marriott at the end of the night. The young Joneses (no relation) seemed to be a couple, but not a particularly cozy one. "It's only fair to warn you though that not everyone is going to welcome you as warmly as Mary-Jane and I."

"Because we're both men?" Dean asked.

"Yes," Robert said, "exactly."

  


***** One Bad Bunny *****  


"A cartoonist?" Sam asked when they returned to the motel. "Castiel, a cartoonist?"

"It's perfect. All our other cover stories were too complicated for Cas to pull off. Even _I_ have trouble with the human lie-detectors walking around."

" _Cartoonist?_ " Sam repeated.

"Cas, look Sam in the eye and tell him you draw bunnies."

"I drew a bunny."

Dean sighed and grabbed the hotel stationery. "Here. Draw another bunny."

Castiel drew another bunny.

"Cas, look Sam in the eye and tell him you draw bunnies."

"I draw bunnies."

"See? Perfect cover story."

Sam glanced down at the paper. "That is one jacked-up-looking bunny rabbit."

"Which is also perfect. No one wants to talk about your job if you're obviously bad at it. It's awkward. Now all I have to do is design some shitty dresses and they'll be avoiding the topic of our careers like the plague."

Dean finally glanced down at the paper himself.

It was a bunny. He could tell because it had two long ears and a nubby sort of tail and was generally bunny shaped. Castiel had apparently doubted if this fully conveyed enough bunnyness so he'd added the word "bunny" at the top of the drawing with an arrow pointing at it.

"Wow," Dean said, "that really sucks."

  


***** The Inevitable Minivan *****  


Sammy was so damned pleased with himself that he was basically one giant dimple. "It was a great deal, too," Sammy said. 

"You paid money for this?" Dean asked.

"Yup. You actually own this one. No fibbing necessary." 

Dean had also formally purchased the Jeffersons' house though that had been a mere technicality as they'd paid Sherry a single dollar.

"How _much_ money did you pay for this?" Dean asked, eyeing it suspiciously.

"Just don't try to take it over thirty-five miles an hour," Sam continued as if Dean had said nothing. "The transmission is a little--" He waggled his hand in the air vaguely. He was still smiling.

"It's pink."

Sam shook his head. "It's dusty rose," he said.

"Fine, you have fun in your _dusty rose_ minivan," Dean said. "I'm keeping my car."

Sam shook his head again. "I need the car up north. I promised Bobby I'd check something out while you're playing house." Dean squinted at him, but Sam continued. "I need an actual vehicle. You just need something respectable to park in the driveway."

" _That_ is not respectable."

Sam smiled wider.

"It's pink," Dean said again.

Sam smiled so wide that he had to be tearing tendons in his face. 

"I know."

  


***** On The Dotted Line *****  


Dean and Castiel signed the homeowners association contract over breakfast and coffee with the four elder Joneses at the Denny's. 

Without Mary-Jane and Robert present, Dean could relax and he found that he actually liked their parents. They seemed easy going and friendly. He'd finally sorted out who belonged with whom. Mary-Jane's parents were Steven and Joanna. Steven struck him as nice but dull. Joanna had at first seemed to be all red hair and fake eyelashes, but was actually well-read and intelligent. Robert's parents were Bob and Deborah. Bob was the most laid back of them all and if Robert hadn't borne such a strong resemblance to his father, Dean might have had suspicions about the milk man. Deborah was unbelievably cheerful and was wearing another low cut top.

Castiel kicked Dean in the ankle under the table. "I love that color on you," Dean said automatically. This gay thing was going to be hard to remember.

"You'll be able to activate the gate now," Steven said.

"How does that work exactly?" Dean asked. "Is there a code?"

"No, it just senses Hatters. I can't say I understand how it does it, but just put your hand in the box at any of the four entrances and the gate will open."

They followed the Joneses back in the minivan. Dean had tried to keep up. Part of him really wanted to be able to follow them into the lock so he wouldn't have to activate the gate himself. However, when Sammy said he shouldn't try to take the minivan over thirty five miles an hour, he had not meant _don't because it will shimmy_ or _because it will chug_ or _because it will whine_. No, he had meant _don't bother trying because it just ain't gonna happen_. They had completely lost sight of the others when he arrived at the gate.

He couldn't help but wince slightly as he slid his hand inside the box. He didn't know why, but his gut kept telling him the box was going to be full of tentacles or spiders or he'd get stabbed through the palm with one of those giant thorns. Instead, he felt nothing at all and the gate just opened without incident. He stared at the hinges as he drove into the lock. He couldn't see any cables or hydraulics, though the gate was somewhat overgrown by the hedge and he couldn't get an entirely clear view. His impression was that the gate just moved by magic, as if the thorny branches of the hedge were opening and closing it by will.

Dean made a mental note to ask his brother what he knew about magical hedges. He glanced over at Castiel and again noticed that the angel was wide-eyed and twitchy. _Still not good._

  


***** Moving In *****  


During that first evening within Thorncraft during their review, Castiel had managed to convey that the place made him uncomfortable. Dean hadn't paid much attention since the place gave him a major case of the willies too. The day they moved in, he finally learned what Castiel meant by uncomfortable. 

Bob Jones called to let him know the moving truck had just been let through the gate. Dean was a little worried about this part since he'd been busy and had entrusted Sam with packing up a home full of belongings that they didn't actually have. The kid was smart enough not to fill the moving truck with empty boxes, wasn't he? Because if anyone offered to help unload any big heavy boxes that turned out to be as light as empty cardboard, they'd be exposed as a sham before they even met the Welcome Wagon. He trusted Sam to not be _that_ stupid. At least he _hoped_ Sam wasn't that stupid. 

Just to be on the safe side, he wanted to make sure that he and Castiel unloaded all the boxes quickly before anyone could offer to help. But as the moving truck rolled into view, Castiel was on the toilet-- _again_. Angels with nervous stomachs, yay.

Bob followed the moving truck in and he grabbed the first box before Dean could intervene. Something clattered unpleasantly when he picked it up. Dean was relieved. Bob was worried. "I hope nothing's broken."

"No worries," Dean said, grabbing the next box. "Bound to lose something in every move." 

Bob put the box on the floor in the middle of the living room. The house was already furnished. They'd promised to box up anything that looked personal, photos and such, and send them on to Sherry, but officially the house had been sold contents and all. 

Castiel finally joined them, looking even paler than he usually did, and they quickly had the living room so crowded with boxes that they could barely move.

"Can I help you unpack?" Bob asked.

"No, no. Cas is very fussy. He'll want to make sure everything goes in just the right spot."

"I'm not fussy," Castiel said, straightening one of the stacks of boxes.

Bob nodded at Dean and said, "I'll leave you to it then. I'll just show the moving truck out."

Dean waited until he left before he began opening boxes. He wasn't sure what to expect. He'd brought his own stuff in the minivan so absolutely nothing that Sam sent would be his belongings. He'd asked Sam to throw in anything that seemed particularly appropriate to the suburbs and at least something Castiel could wear that didn't make him look like a lost insurance salesman.

The first things he unpacked were framed photographs, which unfortunately had broken, and a hideous lamp, which unfortunately had not. They would have to get the photos re-glassed so they could put them up on the wall. They added an air of authenticity even if they were all shots that Sammy had made them pose for in a single afternoon. Castiel and Dean in matching yellow bowling shirts against a plain brick wall. Castiel in a gray hoodie and Dean in a black sweater, leaning against a tree. Castiel and Dean wearing Mickey Mouse ears and sharing an ice cream cone, a tight shot with no visible background. Castiel in a party hat, leaning over a birthday cake and looking slightly cross-eyed as Dean, barely in the edge of the shot, startled him with a party horn.

"Are you okay?" he asked Castiel, after his third trip to the toilet of the day.

Castiel nodded despite frowning. "I shouldn't have had so much coffee. I don't normally drink coffee."

"You don't normally--" Dean gestured at the bathroom. "--either."

"Did you think it was odd that the gates were iron?" Castiel asked.

"You're thinking Sam was wrong and it's not a demon after all?"

"Or it's a demon who wants to make sure it's not interrupted by other demons."

"They don't always share well, do they?" Dean agreed.

"I felt it when we first entered the gate," Castiel said. "There's a force here. I can only describe it as something like a spiritual dampening field."

"You feel weak here?"

Castiel nodded. "I feel human."

They stared at each other for some time and Dean startled when the doorbell rang. The door was still open and Deborah Jones waved at them from outside the screen door. "Hi!"

"Oh, hey, Deborah."

"Debbie! Please, Deborah sounds so formal. I just wanted you to meet some of the other girls in your neighborhood. This is Sandra. And this is Nancy."

Dean waved at "the other girls" and wondered if that meant what he thought. Was he now one of "the girls" on the block? Nancy had to be at least forty and Sandra wasn't much younger than he was if at all, so "girls" was stretching the definition a bit for all of them.

Mary-Jane, truth seer, walked in with them. Dean mentally reminded himself to be on guard. Honesty was a skill he didn't have a lot of practice with.

"Nice to meet everyone, but, um, Cas has been feeling a little off his game this morning and--"

"That's what Bob said," Debbie said. "That's why I thought you'd appreciate it if we helped unpack."

"Oh, no, really. We would really prefer to unpack by ourselves."

"We, at least, have to help you set up the kitchen. Sandra and Nancy have been living on this block longer than anyone and they know exactly how to maximize the space in this model kitchen."

"Uh." Well, the kitchen seemed safe. The boxes were even labeled in Sammy's scrawl with "CLOTHING" and "BEDROOM" and "KITCHEN".

"Cassie, help me with this one," Nancy said, pointing out the largest "KITCHEN" box.

"My name is Castiel," Castiel said as he carried the box into the kitchen and set it down on the counter. 

"Mary-Jane said that Dean calls you Cassie," Nancy said as she opened the box.

"That's kind of a personal thing," Dean said. "Cas doesn't like it when other people call him Snugglekins either."

"My name is Castiel," Castiel repeated. 

Nancy reached in the box and pulled out a giant meat clever, a large knife, a small knife, a serrated knife, a fire ax, more knives, rope, an ice pick, handcuffs...

"It _said_ kitchen," Nancy said dubiously.

Dean looked Mary-Jane straight in the eye and without the slightest hesitation explained, "My brother helped us pack and he's an idiot."

Sandra screamed. Dean looked through the opening between the counter and the cupboards and saw Debbie in the living room hurriedly closing the box marked "BEDROOM". 

"Ladies, I think we should let Dean and Cas unpack their own things," Debbie announced. "Come on, let's leave them alone."

Sandra had turned red and was unsuccessfully stifling giggles. Debbie herded them all out despite Nancy's protests about still needing to maximize the kitchen.

At the door, Debbie stopped and added, "Now, you boys, relax and take your time settling in. Make the place your own. Why don't you come by for dinner later so you don't have to cook your first day here? Of course, I'll understand if the newlyweds want to be alone. Call me! Toodles!"

"What the--" 

Castiel walked over to the box in question, opened it back up, and pulled out a vibrator. He continued to stare inside the box. "Dean, I'm not sure I know what most of these things are."

"I'm gonna kill Sammy."

  


**end chapter two**  



	3. Chapter 3

***** Dinner With The Joneses *****

Dean and Castiel had dinner at Bob and Debbie's house. Robert also joined them which made it more awkward than Dean had planned. Halfway through the meal, it dawned on Dean that Robert still lived with his parents.

"You're not married, Robert?"

"No."

"I thought everyone here had to be married. I'm pretty sure that was in that contract I just signed this morning."

"All homeowners, yes," Bob agreed. "We first moved here when Rob was barely out of diapers. Obviously, the marriage clause wouldn't apply."

"Have to leave the nest someday though, eh?"

"Robert and Mary-Jane are getting married next month," Debbie said. "Oh, Dean, wouldn't it be fun if you were the one to design her dress?"

"Ha! Ha!" Dean laughed awkwardly. "Yeah, that'd be great. I'll have to bang out some sketches to show her." Sam had included a portable sewing machine and several bolts of hideous fabric in the moving truck. Dean made a mental note to figure out the sewing machine as soon as possible. The sooner he had a collection of ugly dresses to show people, the better.

"Have you given more thought to adoption?" Robert asked.

"Huh?" Dean asked, confused. Even Castiel stopped shoveling peas in his mouth and stared.

"This is a _family_ community," Robert reminded them.

"Yeah, and, uh, someday, kids would be, y'know, kids are cute." Dean stumbled over the sentence, carefully watching Robert all the while. He suspected Robert wasn't as good at it as Mary-Jane, but he still frowned every time Dean strayed too far from the truth.

"We were only just married a few days ago," Castiel pointed out. "I believe it's traditional to allow a little more time to pass before children."

"Yes," Robert agreed, "traditionally at least nine months. And if you were a normal couple--"

"Robert!" Debbie snapped. 

"If you were going to conceive a child, is what I meant to say," Robert continued without pause, "then certainly you could be expected to take your time and let nature take its course. We have several couples who have lived here a number of years and still failed to conceive and we're not rushing them. But adoption takes time and planning. You could be on a waiting list for years to get a healthy child."

"I always wanted one of the gimpy ones," Dean said, taking another giant mouthful of mashed potatoes.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You know, one of those cute knobbly ones from the posters with the crutches. Like Tiny Tim. Wouldn't that be sweet, honey?" he asked Castiel, who stared fixedly at his plate.

"You can't be serious," Robert said, but he didn't seem to be sure.

"Or a crack baby!" Dean added cheerfully. "You know the best part about crack babies? You don't have to worry about messing them up any worse than their birth parents would have. That takes a lot of the pressure off."

Robert stared at him, open-mouthed. The lie detector seemed to have short-circuited. The beauty of bull-shitting stream of consciousness like that was you sort of half-believed whatever you were saying yourself.

"Or one of each. A gimpy kid _and_ a crack baby. That way we could have both a boy and a girl."

"That's very, uh, noble of you," Debbie said. 

***** Rules *****

"That's _my_ toothbrush."

Castiel mumbled something around the toothbrush.

"What?"

Castiel spit and rinsed. "I said," he said, washing off the toothbrush, "that Sam didn't pack me a toothbrush."

"You can't use my toothbrush."

"Why not?"

"Because it's gross. You'll get angel cooties on it."

Castiel stared at the toothbrush while he parsed that. "While not unduly stressed, I understand sharing cooties to be a fundamental part of marriage."

"Sammy was right. You are way too literal. Okay, _rules_. One, get your own toothbrush. Two, you're sleeping on the couch tonight."

***** Jimmy *****

In the morning, Dean decided that the best way to do recon their first full day as Hatters was to take a jog through the community. It had seemed like a good idea since it gave them the excuse to be absolutely anywhere, but he hadn't taken into account that neither of them were accustomed to this sort of thing. 

He could run, but he was more of a short-distance sprinter and it helped with his motivation if something was actually chasing him. Jogging was different than running in that it was both tiring _and_ monotonous. They collapsed side by side on a park bench after running the length of Fig Street out to the gate and back, which left two of the main gate roads unexplored, and he had originally planned for them to continue with a loop around the main park so they could check out the church--which he had suspicions about--from a couple of angles.

Castiel was wheezing and Dean had a blister on the back of his left heel. The rest of Thorncraft would have to wait for another day. They'd barely be able to limp home as it was.

"Dean," Castiel said after he'd had a few moments to get his breath back. "I am obliged to inform you that Jimmy hates you now."

"Sorry, Jimmy." Castiel's sweatpants were clinging damply to his legs. He even had butt sweat going on. Dean hadn't thought to pack running shorts either so he couldn't judge, but he was pretty sure the angel would have overdressed for the occasion regardless. He tried to picture Castiel in shorts and the image just wouldn't come to him.

"It's okay," Castiel said. "He still hates me more."

"Jimmy's actually still conscious in there?" It was a jarring thought that took Dean's mind entirely off the subject of athletic wear.

Castiel nodded. 

Dean didn't like to think about Jimmy too much. It was admitting he was an accessory to kidnapping in a way. Kidnapping and possibly torture and Dean had enough to feel guilty about.

"That one time you got punted out, Jimmy said he didn't remember much about being possessed," Dean said. "I figured that meant he wasn't really conscious most of that time." At least that's what Dean wanted it to mean.

Castiel shook his head. "I'm aware of thousands of years of human history, _actual_ history not just what was written down, every language ever spoken--but I don't _understand_ it. Most of it is a confusing blur without meaning for me. It's too much even for _me_ to process. It's well beyond Jimmy's capacity."

"So, it's like he's asleep and dreaming nonsense?"

"No. That's not it." Castiel was silent long enough that Dean figured they'd dropped the subject and then he spoke again. "It's more like you're a little kid on a long road trip and you can't drive so there's no point paying attention to the road or the map or the signs. All you can do is stare out the window and watch the scenery. And if someone asks you later where you went or how you got there, you don't know. You remember the flat tire and the stale cigarette smell inside the tow truck--" 

Dean looked at Castiel carefully because that was a weirdly specific example.

"--but you don't remember how long you waited for it or whether it took you backward or forward along your route. You remember the roadside diner with the banana split as big as your head, but you don't remember what state you were in. You don't remember whole hours and days of sightseeing and museums that your parents thought would be educational, but you remember sitting on a park bench watching a squirrel."

Dean swallowed. There was a squirrel not ten feet from their park bench now and Castiel was watching it. _Jimmy_ was watching it.

"He's right there?" Dean asked. "Just beneath the surface, just watching the scenery go by?"

"Watching the scenery go by," Castiel agreed. "And kicking the seat." After a moment he added, "And singing."

"Singing?"

"I mentioned he hates me, right?"

"He's really singing? Right now? What's he singing?"

"I'm not telling you. You'll only encourage him."

Dean watched the squirrel for a while and then asked, "What would Jimmy like?"

Castiel turned and looked at him, but said nothing.

"So, he likes banana splits and?"

"Hamburgers."

"And besides food. What? Does he like swimming, tennis? I think we can safely rule out jogging. Does he want to watch slapstick comedies or play video games or what? You don't know, do you? You've never thought about this? Cas, you take a man's body and drag his imprisoned soul around the country, you owe him the occasional banana split as a thank you."

Castiel continued to stare at him blankly and finally said, "Can he think about it and get back to you?"

***** The Neighbor Kid *****

A cookout was the logical next step. Castiel mentioning hamburgers had made him think of it, but he really should have been planning it all along. What better way to meet the neighbors than to throw a cookout? The Jeffersons had left a grill in the garage. He had an unfortunate mental flash of how they had met their end, but forced it out of his mind. Fire, meat, _good_ , damn it.

A neighbor kid watched silently as he wheeled the grill out of the garage. Dean waved and the kid waved back without saying a word or setting so much as a toe across their property line.

"You like hamburgers?" Dean asked.

The kid nodded.

"We're having a cookout this Saturday. You're welcome to come. Tell your parents. We'd like to meet everybody."

Dean glanced at the sky. It was blue now, but he remembered those cloudy satellite pictures. And Bob had told him not to bother putting in a sprinkler system when he mentioned it because they always got enough rain to keep the grass green. Perhaps blue skies were a rarity here. "Free hamburgers for everybody as long as it doesn't rain."

"It never rains on Saturdays," the kid said.

"Never?"

The kid shook his head.

"When does it rain?"

"Tuesdays and Thursdays, mostly," the kid said.

It was such an odd thing to say that even Dean Winchester couldn't think of a response and so he proceeded to clean the grill in silence. When he was done, he wheeled it back into the garage and was startled to find the kid still watching him.

"You've always lived in Thorncraft?" he asked.

"Yeah." 

The kid said it like, _where else would I live?_ and that made him think of another question.

"Have you ever been outside the hedgerow?

"No."

And the kid said that like, _why would I want to do that?_ which was weirder still.

"How old are you?"

"Twelve."

Twelve years lived entirely in a space maybe a little over two square miles. But at least it never rained on Saturdays.

***** The Cookout *****

The cookout was a smashing success. There were no fences between the yards and the neighbors owning the adjacent property all joined in, so the crowd could spread out on the extended lawn. They had a large but not unmanageable turnout.

The actual cooking part started out rocky. Castiel was not practiced at starting fires without full angel powers. Match after match sputtered and went out. He occasionally got the newspaper around the briquettes lit, but then that would blow out as well. 

Castiel's complete inability to start a fire was downright entertaining. _It's fire. Fire. So simple a caveman can do it._ Dean finally took pity on him when the first guest arrived and he still hadn't managed to get the grill going. Castiel said thank you as the flames rose, which was a rare moment of civility that Dean imagined he should appreciate, but he couldn't help but notice that Castiel didn't really look all that grateful.

They met more of the neighbors than Dean could possibly remember. Castiel agreed to attend a weekly book club and Dean signed up for cooking classes. They both said they were looking forward to the regular Wednesday night concert in the park. Dean offered to help one of the neighbors with some renovation work the next week. Castiel joined a meditation group and Dean dodged an invitation to a sewing class--they thought _he_ could give _them_ pointers--by laughing it off as sounding too much like work.

They served beer and cocktails and a few of the neighbors got just tipsy enough to talk a bit more than they should. They mostly had nice things to say about the Jeffersons. _Poor things. How shocking. Must have been a defect in the car. We'll miss them._ But as the alcohol flowed, a few other phrases slipped out. _Selfish. Hypocrites. Thought they were better than us. Probably too lazy to have the car serviced properly._

There was more of a story there, but even with the booze no one was saying enough for Dean to piece it together. Castiel was standing by the grill just watching. Or at least Dean hoped he was watching. Sometimes when he got that vacant look in his eye--well, it was just possible that Jimmy was paying more attention than Castiel was. Which reminded Dean that he needed to make sure Castiel actually _ate_ one of the burgers he was serving up.

He hadn't meant to do it, but sometimes his inner child snuck up on him and got the upper hand. A few feet from Castiel, he started singing in falsetto, " _In the jungle, the quiet jungle, the lion sleeps tonight_."

Castiel winced. 

"Are we in harmony?" Dean asked.

"You're not even singing the same song."

"All right, Jimmy, let's try this again. Follow my lead. _In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight_. Now?"

Castiel nodded. "You are a horrible person."

"I just wanted to make sure Jimmy was paying attention. What does he like on his burger?"

"I already ate a burger."

"Was Jimmy paying attention then?"

Castiel shrugged.

"Eat another burger."

"I'm not hungry."

"Your fault for not making sure Jimmy was paying attention. I know you don't actually mean any harm and most of the time we're running around from crisis to crisis with no time to think about sleep let alone relaxation or fun, but this time we're supposed to be blending in to the upper middle class American dream. We've got time to kick back a little and that means time for _Jimmy_."

A few of the neighbors were watching, so he slipped his arm around Castiel so he could whisper and let it look natural. "Speaking as someone who has politely declined being an angel's meat suit," Dean whispered, "I'd like to remind you that the vessel is a person. He may not be able to survive without you now, but that's your fault and _you owe him_."

"I'll eat another hamburger," Castiel agreed.

"Also," Dean said, patting Castiel on the chest, "we need to get you laid."

Castiel looked very confused. "Does that mean I'm not sleeping on the couch tonight?"

"Cas, shut up. Jimmy, pay attention." Dean pointed around the lawn party. "Look around. Tell me, who is Jimmy's type?"

"Everyone here is married," Castiel said.

"That doesn't matter. I'm just trying to figure out a type. You don't even have to narrow it down to a whole person. Does he like that one's legs and that one's eyes or what? Just give me something to go on."

Castiel didn't even look around the lawn. He just stared at Dean and frowned. Dean leaned in even closer and whispered, "Come on, Jimmy. Tell him what to say. Tell him we'll sing again if he doesn't answer. Who here would you most want to get it on with?"

Castiel stared at him a moment longer and finally answered. "Jimmy says it's best if I just eat the hamburger now."

***** A Quiet Sunday *****

Sunday morning they attended the church for the first time. The sign out front said "First Church of Thorncraft." As far as they'd managed to gather, it was the _only_ church of Thorncraft. It looked like a classic white-washed church with a wooden steeple and double doors.

_Open up the doors_... . The old rhyme ran through Dean's head and he could picture the place filled with giant wriggling fingers. 

The church was surrounded by a lush green lawn and a large garden dotted with benches. The centerpiece of the church garden was a massive tangle of thorns. Dean couldn't quite decide whether it was a bush or a tree or even if it was a single plant or a clump of several. It was the same as the hedge that surrounded Thorncraft, but not quite as tall and contained within a decorative fence only about knee high that formed a perfect circle around it.

"Iron again," Dean said pointing out the fence to Castiel.

"Those are binding runes," Castiel said.

"Where?" 

Castiel leaned over and tapped what Dean had taken to be decorative etching in the knobs capping each fence post.

"It's a demon trap," Dean agreed.

Castiel nodded, but frowned.

"Or?" Dean prompted him.

Castiel stared at the fence. "It would hold a demon."

"But? Cas, knock it off. You're not subtle. What about this does _not_ say demon trap to you?"

Castiel shrugged. "You're a hunter. Would you build something this intricate to trap a demon?"

"Too much effort," Dean agreed. "If not a demon, what was trapped here?"

"I don't know."

"I don't see a break in the circle. How did it get out?"

"I'm not sure that it did," Castiel said.

"Do you see something I don't see?" Dean asked. "Because I just see an ugly shrub."

"It's more a thicket of small trees than a shrub," Castiel said.

"Are you aggravating on purpose?"

"Dean," Castiel said and nodded in the direction of a woman in a headscarf. "That woman is wearing a hijab. Human are rarely this harmonious when it comes to religious tradition."

"You don't have to tell me that," Dean said. He turned and waved at the family that Castiel indicated, but before he could approach them, a woman in a peach pantsuit called cheerfully to all of the stragglers in the garden.

"We're beginning!" She ushered them all in with a friendly smile. 

Inside, hundreds of white wooden folding chairs were lined up in neat rows. The style of the church was quaint small-town, but the scale was cathedral and it appeared that _everyone_ who lived there attended. There was a white dove in the center of the stained glass. Dean could find no representations of the usual impaled dying guy but other than that, it had the general feel of your basic Christian house of worship, except a quick glance around the congregation also revealed a man in a yarmulke. 

The minister was none other than Joanna Jones. Dean could barely keep himself from laughing when he overheard another parishioner refer to her as Reverend JoJo. It fit her though.

The service was a vague pep talk about doing good works and loving your neighbor. She introduced Dean and Castiel at the end and asked everyone to pray for them as the newest members of the community. She even mentioned their hopes to start a family and Castiel's dream of selling his cartoons and Dean had just enough of a sense of shame to feel a little bad about people wasting prayers on them. There was pleasant music and after the service everyone milled about the church garden and chatted while drinking coffee and eating cookies. It turned out to be the least creepy church service Dean had ever attended.

After the service, he lost track of both the man in the yarmulke and the woman in the headscarf, but Castiel managed to find a woman named Naomi Goldbaum and that sounded like a place to start. He was mulling over a polite way to say, "So, you're a Jew, right? What's with the whole happy Protestants thing?" and when he couldn't think of a particularly tactful way to say it, he just said it. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you, because I really hadn't expected the 'Yay! Queers!' welcome myself, but it's appreciated."

Naomi laughed. "Everyone is very amiable and accepting. You can just think of the church as a community center, if it makes you feel better. We have a few people here with differing traditions from Reverend JoJo and those who feel strongly enough have private ceremonies in their own homes. I know there are a couple of Bible study groups of various flavors and my family gets together with the Greens for the holy days. But the Mad Hatters really prefer it if everyone attends the weekly services together and it's a chance to catch up with everyone."

"Mad Hatters?" Castiel asked.

Naomi laughed again. "Sorry, HAT is a bit silly sometimes. We've taken to calling the hard-liners the Mad Hatters. Some of their rules--well, _Robert's_ rules mainly, I think--can be odd," she said. "If you ask me, the man's just a teensy bit OCD."

"Just a teensy bit, yes," Dean agreed. He led her back towards the iron fence in the garden as they talked. Without any attempt at subtlety, he pointed at it and said, "This is just an ugly ass shrub."

"Thicket," Castiel corrected.

"Why is it the center of the garden?" Dean asked.

She blinked at him and seemed more shocked at his critique of the thicket than of anything else he had said. "Well, this is _Thorn_ craft," she pointed out. "The thorn trees are just part of our tradition."

"What species of tree is this?" Castiel asked. "I don't recognize it."

Naomi shrugged. "I have no idea. They're just thorn trees. According to legend, if you make a wish and prick your finger on one of the thorns, it will come true."

She left them standing and staring at the thicket. "You want to make a wish?" Dean asked.

"No," Castiel said.

"Me either." 

They poked around as discreetly as they could and failed to turn up any occult texts or secret altars or sacrificial virgins or anything remotely suspicious and finally they went home to clean up the remnants of Saturday's party.

***** Wheezing and Dripping *****

Castiel took all the trash to the curb and Dean ran a load of dishes in the dishwasher. There turned out to be very little to do after that, so Dean hauled out the sewing machine and stared at it for a bit before turning it on. It was much, much smaller than a car and Dean reassured himself that it could not therefore be any more complicated than a car and he was going to figure this thing out.

He found a couple of instructional videos on the Internet that covered the basic concept of threading a machine and he was about ready to try it when Castiel asked, "What's that sound?"

Dean looked up. At first he didn't hear it and then he realized that he did hear a faint wheezing sound coming from the kitchen. And dripping. Something was dripping. Wheezing and dripping. That probably wasn't good. And most of the weapons were still _in_ the kitchen.

Dean made sure he had his pocket knife and crept cautiously towards the kitchen. "Oops." Yeah, not good. Not demonic, but not good.

He grabbed the sprayer from the sink and pulled the hose out as far as it would reach and tried to wash the suds off the dishwasher, but more and more kept oozing out.

"Dean." Castiel was standing at the edge of the dining room looking more horror-struck than he typically looked when people were trying to kill them. "Dean, what did you _do?_ "

"What? It just started doing that. I didn't do anything to it. It's freaking possessed."

"Dean, did you put liquid dish soap in the dish washer?"

"Yeah, of course."

"The same kind of soap you use in the sink?"

"There's a different kind?"

Castiel waded through the growing suds and reached under the cupboard and pulled out a bottle of dishwasher machine soap. "Yes. There's a different kind."

"Oh. Well, how was I supposed to know the other kind would do this? It doesn't warn you anywhere."

Castiel picked up the bottle of blue liquid next to the sink and held it out to Dean.

"What?"

Castiel pointed at the label.

Dean read, "'Not for use in dishwashers.' _That_ is very small print!"

"How much did you _use?_ " Castiel asked as the kitchen continued to fill with bubbles.

"Not much. I just filled all the things in the door."

" _Things?_ You filled _all_ the _things_ in the door?"

"Yeah."

"Including the one that says it's for the rinse cycle?"

"Maybe?" Dean said staring at the frothing machine. "One of the things says rinse cycle?"

"You've shown a lot of interest lately in what Jimmy is thinking so I'd just like to share with you that what Jimmy is thinking right now is the word _dumbass_."

"I think 'dumb ass' is two words." Dean decided not to share that he'd also squirted extra soap on the dishes he thought looked particularly greasy. He started spraying down the front of the dishwasher again.

"Dean, stop. Stop. You're making it worse."

"I'm trying to--"

"I said stop. You're--" 

"It just keeps--"

"That's because--"

"Why won't it--" 

"Stop."

Castiel hit a switch on the machine and the wheezing stopped and was replaced by a sad glugging noise.

Dean kept spraying at the suds-filled kitchen.

"Stop." Castiel yanked the sprayer out of his hands and grabbed Dean's head firmly in both hands. "Think. What do you get when you combine soap and water and you agitate it?"

"Bubbles."

"And when your kitchen is full of soapy water and bubbles and you add more water and agitate it, what do you get?"

" _More_ bubbles?"

"Yes."

"We have a kitchen full of suds," Dean said.

"Yes."

"And we _can't_ use water to wash it out?" Dean asked.

"The amount of water necessary would flood the whole house."

Dean stared at the kitchen. The suds were up to his thighs in places and he could barely stand because the floor was so slick. "I'm going to have to admit that I'm a little out of my depth on this one."

Castiel closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Stay there."

"What are you--" 

"Just stay there. Do not move. I'll be right back."

"Okay."

"Do not move at all."

"Okay."

Castiel showed a distinct lack of trust by continuing to watch Dean like a hawk while he wiped down his own legs with a dish towel.

"Don't touch anything," Castiel said as he squelched out of the kitchen.

A minute or two later he returned with an armful of large bath towels. He tossed one to Dean. "Just start mopping. Gently, nothing vigorous."

They mopped up all the suds and glop and, very cautiously, rinsed the towels and did it again. And again. And again. They emptied the dishwasher and finished the load by hand. They scooped out all the suds they could and then ran the empty machine through a water cycle. 

They got soaking wet and slipped and fell and rinsed the floor again to get the last traces of soap. They ended sitting on the floor leaning against the dishwasher. 

"On the bright side," Dean said. "We have the cleanest kitchen in Thorncraft. You actually _could_ eat off of this floor."

Even Castiel giggled. 

"I don't think I've ever heard you laugh before," Dean said.

Castiel sighed and looked at him. "I think Jimmy likes it here. He's not," Castiel said, tapping his head, "kicking the seat as much today."

"See? And that was just a hamburger. Imagine how much more relaxed he'll be after we get you laid." 

Dean stood up and offered Castiel a hand.

"I wish you'd stop reminding him of that. He still hasn't forgiven me for getting us kicked out of that brothel."

Dean laughed at just the wrong moment and lost his footing and Castiel ended up pulling him down on top of him. He laughed into Castiel's chest for a moment and then perked up. "Oh, you know what we could do _right now?_ "

Castiel's eyes widened in apparent confusion. "What?" he finally asked.

"We should check out that malt shop. I bet they have banana splits."

"Oh."

**end chapter three**


	4. Chapter 4

***** Winchesters vs HAT: Round 1 *****

On Monday, they received their first HAT notice. Dean found it wedged behind the door knocker when he went outside to install the plastic flamingos.

HAT informed them that trash pickup in their neighborhood was scheduled for Tuesday mornings and trash should be taken to the curb no earlier than 7pm on Monday. He felt smug when he showed it to Castiel. Their first official violation and it had been _the angel_ who screwed up.

"Should I move the trash?" Castiel asked.

Dean scoffed at the idea of moving trash for just a few hours and told him to leave it. He spent the rest of the afternoon sewing dresses. He'd outdone himself. The dresses were hideous.

Sam called to see what they'd found so far and generally scolded them when the answer was nothing. Dean set the phone to speaker so Castiel could get chewed out too.

"You haven't found _anything?_ "

"Sorry, Bosley, all dead ends so far."

"Even your jokes don't work," Sam said. "Charlie was the one who always called in on the speaker phone, not Bosley."

"All right, review. Mary-Jane and Robert cannot actually read minds. We never get called out on the things we _don't_ say. Also, Mary-Jane's better at it. The neighbor kid says that in twelve years he's never been beyond the hedgerow and he didn't even sound curious about the rest of the world out there. He also claimed that the weather sticks to a predictable schedule. The neighbors don't seem to have had strong feelings about the Jeffersons one way or another, but I did hear the word 'selfish' slip out a few times. The Jeffersons enjoyed the benefits of Thorncraft, but didn't give back to the community."

"That fits with the sacrifice theory," Sam said. 

"Oh, yeah," Dean agreed. "A place doesn't get this perfect without some serious magical interference. I just haven't figured out what." He glanced out the window. "And it's been four hours and my flamingos remain unmolested."

"Sherry said Suzi told her that living in Thorncraft _cost too much_. Have they asked you to do anything difficult? Painful? Strange?" 

"Everyone's actually been really nice. Well, except Robert, and I think he's just a dick."

"Is that Robert Jones?" Sam asked.

"Yeah."

"I was researching the history of Thorncraft," Sam said. "There's very little documenting the existence of the place. But I found something odd about the area before it was built. There was a family traveling cross country in their van. They camped the night in a vacant field and woke the next morning to discover that their son, little Robbie Jones, had wandered off in the night. Wandered or been taken. They alerted the local authorities and volunteers from the surrounding towns all came out to help look. The other Joneses, Steve and Joanna, they found him first."

"You think they had something to do with it?"

"Nah, it doesn't track. They lived thirty miles away. They didn't even join the search until the second day when it made the papers. But they found him, were hailed as heroes in the county newspapers, and the two sets of Joneses became the best of friends. Here's the weird part. Both couples then bought up all the surrounding property and built Thorncraft on the spot where little Robbie was found."

"The kid found something," Dean said.

"Or something found the kid. Either way, there was obviously something there that both couples agreed to keep secret and protect."

"Why?"

"Robert Sr. and Deborah were traveling cross country in an old van because that's all they had. Steve and Joanna had jobs and a small home, but they weren't exactly wealthy either. But somehow the four of them found the money to buy up what is now Thorncraft and build a development there. Every business venture they touched turned to gold. Each of them is a millionaire today, Dean."

"Ah, money, the old classic. Sell your soul to the devil for a nice shiny coin."

"Hell can get plenty of souls for free," Castiel said. "The Joneses are in their fifties now. Demons don't buy souls for bags of riches and wait for you to die of old age to collect."

"The _Jeffersons_ were young," Dean said.

"The Jeffersons were trying to break the contract," Sam said. "What's in the contract worth killing for?"

Silence.

"Dean, tell me you _read_ the contract before you signed it."

Silence.

"Cas, you're not as stupid as he is. What was in the contract?"

"It was very mundane," Castiel said. "Basic rules, noise ordinances, no unapproved visitors, fines for violations. We can't sell the house to anyone but the housing authority without their approval."

"Guys, send me a copy of the contract," Sam said. "You know you really should let the guy who studied pre-law read these things _before_ you sign them."

***** Meditating With Angels *****

Dean had mild reservations about leaving Castiel unsupervised with the neighbors, but reasoned he couldn't get into _too_ much trouble in a meditation group. He was an angel after all. He had several millennia of practice at emptying his mind and staring blankly into the void. Dean had always thought of Castiel as the anthropomorphism of Boredom and what else was meditation really?

As they walked to the Harrisons' house, Dean gave Castiel a few reminders anyway. 

"If anyone asks about us, just say you're not comfortable talking about your personal life."

Castiel nodded.

"If anyone asks about your past, be vague."

Castiel nodded.

"If anyone asks you anything you can't answer, just change the subject."

Castiel didn't nod.

"You talk about something else," Dean explained. "'Oh, what an interesting lamp! Where did you buy it?' or 'You have such a lovely home. Have you lived here long?' Got it? Ask _them_ questions."

"'Have you noticed any unexplained phenomena in the community?'"

" _No._ "

"That's a question," Castiel insisted. 

"It's not a good question."

"'Have any of your neighbors besides the Jeffersons ever spontaneously burst into flames?'"

"Even you aren't that stupid. Just keep your mouth shut as much as possible and, worst case scenario, tell them I forgot to refill your prescription. Just blend in and observe."

"How long are we planning to continue this, Dean?"

"Until we figure out what killed the Jeffersons."

"We have more pressing matters than a minor demon in suburbia."

"We haven't even been here a full week. For an immortal being, you don't have a lot of patience. And you don't know that this is a minor demon. You yourself pointed out that this is not the standard ten year contract. If a demon is handing out happily-ever-after and the American dream to all comers, it has got to be getting something big in return and I'm betting it's more than just two suburbanites flambé."

They stopped three houses down from the Harrisons' and stared at the lawn.

"I don't think we have to worry about getting into trouble for your flamingos," Castiel said.

The Harrisons' lawn was full of angels. Stone angels and ceramic angels and nylon wind-sock angels and wooden cut-outs of angels holding hands to make a decorative border along the flower bed.

"Do not," Dean said sternly, "correct them about _anything_."

Heather Harrison waved at them from her front step next to the angel wind chimes.

Castiel turned around. "I've changed my mind. I don't want to meditate."

"Too late," Dean said. "She's already seen us."

"We'll just tell her that, uh, um--" 

"What explanation could we give for walking all the way over here and you changing your mind yards from the door?"

Castiel stepped closer to Dean and said, "We could tell her we were overcome by a fit of passion and had to go home."

Dean squinted at him and said nothing. 

"We're newlyweds. They'll believe us."

Dean laughed dryly. "You're getting better at improvising. That's a good one, but no. Really good try, but no. My cooking class is supposed to be making beef something or other in wine sauce. It sounds tasty. Also, we're staying here until we've solved this."

"Don't make me go in the crazy angel lady's house. It's going to be worse inside. I know it is."

"You'll be fine. Have fun. I have to go to my cooking class." Dean waved back at Heather Henderson and then kissed Castiel on the cheek.

"Is she still watching?" Castiel asked.

"That would be why I kissed you, yes."

"Just checking." 

Castiel opened his mouth to say something else, but Dean gently pushed him away. 

"The sooner we take out whatever killed the Jeffersons, the sooner we can leave," Dean said. " _That_ is your motivation."

"There will be angel needlepoint pillows. I know there will needlepoint."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not."

"No, I'm not. This is damned funny."

***** In Whine Sauce *****

"It's not fair is what I'm saying!" a blaring voice said with a hint of a whine.

Dean stepped inside Sandra Metzger's front door just in time to overhear a loud exchange in the other room. Sandra smiled at him awkwardly.

"They have plans--" 

He didn't recognize the voices, but they were all female. He'd already half expected to be the only man there.

"That hardly counts," the first woman protested.

"Of course it counts!" another woman said. "How dare you suggest--" 

"I heard that Heather is talking to the other one tonight," someone else interrupted. " _That_ has to count."

"If they agree," the loudest one said. "I'm not holding my--" 

"Look who's here!" Sandra called out with forced cheer. 

Dean followed her into the kitchen. There were half a dozen women in the kitchen and breakfast nook area. He wouldn't be able to put together faces with voices for the rest of them, but he didn't even have to guess at that loud one. A thin brunette was leaning against the counter and swirling her glass of wine in one hand. She made no attempt to disguise her contempt. She scowled at Dean as she gave him the once over before finally shrugging and announcing, "At least he's cute."

***** Hamburger Helper With Booze *****

"How bad could it have been?" Dean asked.

"I can't even describe it," Castiel said.

"Cooking class was awesome, by the way. I brought home leftovers."

"She kept _explaining_ angels to me."

"Tell me you did not correct her."

Castiel closed his eyes and shuddered. "Did you know we sparkle in sunlight?"

Dean laughed. "At least someone recognizes you're really blood-sucking bastards. Open your mouth."

Castiel opened one eye.

"Open your mouth," Dean said holding out a fork. "Try this. It tastes just like Hamburger Helper with booze. I can't believe it never occurred to me to put booze in Hamburger Helper before."

Castiel took a bite. 

"Isn't that awesome?"

"And then Seth Harrison cornered me and tried to talk me into having sex with his wife."

Dean stared at him for a moment and then scooped up another forkful of beef and noodles. "Okay, first things first. This is awesome, yes?"

Castiel accepted another bite and swallowed. "Yes. Awesome. Just like Hamburger Helper with booze. Dean, it was very uncomfortable. I'm not accustomed to being propositioned, let alone by my neighbor's husband on my honeymoon."

"We're not on our honeymoon. Can't afford Bermuda this year. Remember, sweetie?"

"Technically, honeymoon refers to the month following the wedding regardless of whether the couple goes on vacation. And I would think that's a period when one should reasonably expect to be free of propositions."

"He actually asked you to have sex with his wife?" Dean asked.

"Yes."

"He was talking threesome? Or he just wanted to watch?"

"He offered to _assist_ if necessary," Castiel said. "His general goal though was for me to impregnate his wife."

"Seth's shooting blanks?" Dean took another bite of the beef noodles himself. "This really is awesome. I have to make more of this."

Castiel nodded.

"I told him I wasn't comfortable having sex with his wife and his counteroffer was to suggest that _you_ might be willing to impregnate his wife."

"Last bite?" Dean offered Castiel the last forkful of noodles. "What did you tell him?"

Castiel wiped sauce off his chin. "I told him no," he said, frowning. "It's still our honeymoon."

***** Winchesters vs HAT: Round 2 *****

Tuesday, they received their second HAT notice and this one included a $100 fine for not complying with the first HAT notice.

"That dick!" Dean shook the paper at Castiel. "Can you believe this?"

Dean called up Sam, set the phone to speaker, and set it on the coffee table. "Sam, I need to borrow $100. We have our first fine. Although for the record, it was not for the flamingos."

"I'll see what I can do."

"This has to be Robert," Dean said, still waving the paper around. "The rest of them are nice. That guy has it in for us."

"Do you think he suspects we're investigating?" Castiel asked, joining him on the sofa.

"Nah, he just doesn't like us. He seems a little hung up on the guy-guy thing."

"I haven't sensed any prejudice from anyone about that," Castiel said. "I'd go so far as to say they've all been ideal neighbors."

"You didn't meet whats-her-face last night."

"I think Dean's right," Sam said, "but it's not quite what he thinks. I've been going over that contract. Now, Cas, you were right that the contract itself was pretty mundane. Most of the weird stuff is in the initial requirements. They only accept young married couples, no singles, no seniors, and no children over the age of four."

"The neighbor kid is twelve," Dean said.

"Yeah, and little Robbie Jones is almost twenty-five now," Sam said. "But they won't accept _new_ applicants with children over the age of four. Which brings us back to the contract. It's _mostly_ mundane, but there is one _really_ strange clause in it. It would never hold up in court, but I think we've agreed we're dealing with forces beyond the realm of lawsuits."

"Okay, what's the wiggy clause?" Dean asked.

"You have to send your kids to Thorncraft Academy," Sam said.

"Yeah, we know that already," Dean said. "It's the only school here."

"Dean, you're not just contractually obligated to send any children you happen to have to Thorncraft Academy. You are contractually obligated to _have children_ to send to Thorncraft Academy."

Castiel nodded. "Robert Jones has been very persistent in encouraging us to adopt children. And that would explain the Harrisons' urgency to conceive."

"Okay, that's it then," Dean said. "Mark and Suzi didn't have kids and they lived here almost two years. They ran out of time and--" 

"Nope," Sam said. "The deadline is five years. They still had three more years to have a kid. And if they didn't meet the deadline, the worst that would happen would be the house reverting back to HAT."

Dean sighed and threw up his hands. "I have no clue then. It's got to have something to do with the school, but I don't know how to get in and check it out. We have no excuse to hang around since we're not parents."

"Talk to the neighbor kids," Sam suggested. "Hey, maybe they'll want to hear all about the glamorous world of women's fashions for career day."

"I'll admit I don't have any better ideas."

"Speaking of your careers," Sam said. "I've been covering for you. You now both have web pages. I've emailed you the links. We don't need the Winchester name out there any more than necessary, so I used the name you originally gave the Joneses as your professional personae. That way, you also sound less like lying dicks. So as far as cyberspace is concerned, you are Dean Emerson, fashion designer, and Cassie Emerson, cartoonist."

"Cassie is a girl's name," Castiel said.

"Dude, you draw bunnies," Sam said. "Get over it."

Dean pulled up his email and clicked on the links. "There's not a lot on my page," he said.

"Dean, you sent me three photos and they weren't even well lit. What do you want from me?"

"Oh, check this out. I already have an email on the D. Emerson account. Sonovabitch! Some cheapskate actress wants me to send a free dress for a red carpet shindig. How's a designer supposed to make a living giving away free dresses?"

"So, don't send a dress."

"Are you kidding? She _totally_ deserves a D. Emerson original."

"Dean, please focus."

"Look, Cas, we can order coffee mugs with your bunny on it."

"You're _welcome!_ " Sam said.

"We have to order a couple of these."

"Dean."

"Do we get money when people buy these?"

"The company that sells the mugs gets most of the money, but yeah, you get a small amount of money for each mug."

"Cool."

"It's not even going to come close to paying for your $100 fine though," Sam said. "So, whatever it was you did, don't do it again."

"Sure. Sure. I'll try to get you some better pictures for my web page."

"Dean, will you forget the web page," Sam said. "We've done more than enough work on your cover story. Stop playing around. Please remember, a man and woman were _burned alive_ because of something that was going on there. We're not any closer to figuring out what."

"You're right. Sorry to do this to you, Cas, but I think we need to break out the sweat pants again for another jogging recon."

"As soon as it stops raining," Cas agreed.

Dean glanced out the window where a light rain had just begun to fall.

"Yeah, that's right. Today _is_ Tuesday."

***** Fuck *****

"Cas, _try_ to look less shifty."

"How?"

"For starters, stop staring at the kids. We're the strangers in town. It makes people nervous when strangers stare at kids. Follow me."

They jogged a full circuit around Vine Circle which ringed the center of Thorncraft--comprised of the church with its the garden, the park, and the school--and then did stretches on the edge of the school property as nonchalantly as they could.

"Jimmy says to tell you that you owe us another banana split."

"That sounds fair. And stop staring at the school. You're gonna get us on a registry."

"How do we watch the school without looking at the school?"

"Peripheral vision. Observe the area. Just look at me, okay? Pay attention to your surroundings, but look at me."

Castiel watched Dean stretch. 

"You really can't just look at someone without it being creepy, can you?"

"Sorry."

"And, it looks like we have a visitor," Dean said and then when Castiel turned to look he added, "Keep looking at _me_."

A little girl in a school uniform approached them. "Hello."

"Hello," they answered.

"You're new here," she said. "You're the ones Reverend Jo talked about on Sunday."

"As a matter of fact, we are," Dean said. "We just moved into the Jeffersons' old place."

Castiel asked her, "Did you know the Jeffersons?"

The girl shrugged. "Sure. Oak Street. You're _married?_ "

"Yes."

"You love each other?"

"Sure," Dean said. "Don't we, sweetheart?"

"Yes," Castiel said.

"You sleep in the same bed?"

The girl was young. Maybe even a first grader. Dean wasn't sure what you were supposed to tell a first grader. Certainly out in what Dean thought of as the real world, there were people who would not be okay with a couple of gay guys chatting up a kid about gay marriage. But so far, everyone here had been pretty chill.

"That's what married people do. Yeah."

She frowned at him. It was a very _familiar_ frown.

"Why don't you sleep in the same bed then?"

Dean and Castiel exchanged a glance.

"We had a little fight," Dean said.

"About a toothbrush," Castiel said.

"She doesn't need to know what the fight was about," Dean said to Castiel and then turned back to the girl. "So he's been sleeping on the couch. Sometimes married people do that too."

"But how do you make babies?" she asked.

Dean laughed. _Okay, direct._

"We'll adopt," Castiel said.

"Why don't you want babies?" she asked. "I thought everyone wanted babies."

"Of course we want babies," Dean said. "We're just going to adopt them since--" He really didn't know how much a first grader was supposed to know about this. And the girl was still frowning. Dean quickly added, "Babies are adorable. Right. But you know what, babies are a lot of work to take care of. So as much as we _like_ babies, we're not really in a hurry to have a baby of our own."

She nodded thoughtfully. "But you will have a baby eventually?"

"Can I ask you a question?" Dean asked. "Do you know why the Jeffersons left Thorncraft?"

She shook her head. "Why would anyone want to leave?"

Dean thought he probably shouldn't ask the next question, but he couldn't help it. "Do you know what happened to the Jeffersons after they left."

The girl nodded solemnly. "They went too far."

"Too far?"

She nodded again and then turned and ran back to her playmates.

"Okay," Dean whispered, "was it just me or did she just pull that lie-detector routine on us? I don't care what Sam says. I am _not_ volunteering for Career Day."

"Dean, do you hear children screaming?" Castiel asked.

Dean snapped around and looked across the playground. "Where?" 

There were dozens, maybe a hundred, children on the school grounds. Off to one side, a soccer game. A larger group was playing dodge ball within the chain-link confines of the tennis court. Less organized activities were going on in the form of jump rope and tether ball and something he remembered was called four-square though he couldn't remember the rules. The girl who had talked to them was on the swings now with another girl and a boy. Dean couldn't see anything out of place.

"You heard kids screaming?" he asked Castiel.

"No."

Dean sighed. "Why do you have to scare me like that. I thought--"

"Dean," Castiel said, "by my count there are over one hundred and twenty children outside that school. _None_ of them are screaming."

Dean looked back at the children in the schoolyard, orderly playing in their spotless school uniforms.

"Whoa. Okay. Okay." Dean nodded. "Two things I know about kids. They're messy and they're loud."

And, creepy or not, they were both staring at the school children now. Dean hadn't noticed before, but it wasn't _just_ that the children were clean and well-behaved, freaky enough as that may have been. There was a kind of synchronicity to them. The way the balls bounced and the swings swung, the way the jump ropes hit the ground. The rhythms added to an odd kind of harmony.

The old lines repeated in Dean's head. _Open up the doors._ He could almost see the wriggling fingers, all belonging to the same two hands. _And see all the people._

"It's like a massive juggling act," Castiel said, seeing a different metaphor. 

"They're all being controlled by the same puppet master," Dean whispered.

Castiel nodded.

"Fuck."

**end chapter four**  



	5. Chapter 5

***** Poking About *****

Dean called Sam again, but he didn't pick up this time. "It's _The Village of the Damned_ , Sammy," Dean told the voice mail. "We need to find out everything there is to know about mass mind control of children, possibly including full possession." Dean pocketed the phone with a frustrated grunt.

"I'll go to the bookstore," Castiel said. "My book club is supposed to meet at Sandra's house in a few days to discuss the latest John Grisham novel."

"Yay?"

"Bookstores are often a source of occult information. It gives me an excuse to go in and ask about area history at the very least. After that, I think I should leave. My usefulness is sorely limited here. In Thorncraft, I'm no better than human."

"And how lame is that?" Dean had meant the quip to be sarcastic, but Castiel nodded.

"As an angel, I may be able to uncover something useful. I'll let you know if I learn anything."

"Good plan," Dean agreed. "I met a guy at the cookout, Frank Washington. He's doing some renovations on his house and mentioned he could use some help. I'll swing by there and see if I can lend a hand. Sometimes people get chatty when you're working together."

No one was home at the Washington house. A neighbor at the corner of Elm and Willow was planting flowers out front so he risked sounding nosy and asked her if she knew where they were. Allison Robbins didn't seem to think he was out of line for asking and happily explained that the Washingtons weren't home from work yet. 

Tonia was a doctor at the Thorncraft medical center, which Dean didn't even realize they had, and she wouldn't be due home until the evening provided there were no emergencies. Dean mentally penciled in medical center after church and school as a potential source of weirdness. Haunted hospitals were practically cliché.

Frank was a florist with a more predictable schedule and thus could be expected home by six as long as he didn't stop somewhere on the way. Allison Robbins also volunteered that the Washingtons had a fifteen-year-old daughter who was due home from school soon if that would help.

Dean was sorely tempted to point out to Allison that it probably wasn't a good idea to tell a complete stranger the Washingtons' entire schedule, including not only how long the house would still be empty but exactly how long their teenage daughter would be home alone. But her trusting nature was currently to his advantage. 

"Just the one kid?" Dean asked.

"They have a young son Marcus as well," Allison said, "but he has a lot of after school activities."

"But the daughter doesn't?"

Allison pursed her lips disapprovingly. "Haylee is--" She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Well, I suppose I could just say she's a teenager, but she's only a year older than my Ashley, and Ashley has never been so willful."

_Willful_ was an interesting word, all things considered. Dean decided to come back after school to talk to Haylee before her parents got home. 

***** Rod of Asclepius *****

In the meantime Dean went and found the medical center. It was on Vine Circle across from the school, between Poplar and Walnut. The only signage outside the building to indicate its purpose was a rod of Asclepius. Dean had noticed that much before, but just taken it for a doctor's office and wrongly assumed the rest of the complex was unrelated commercial space. He'd been focused on the school at the time and had not thought much more about it. He had mainly just noted that it was correctly the symbol of Asclepius and not the Caduceus which was growing more popular despite, mythologically speaking, being very wrong. (It was one of Sammy's pet peeves and he'd heard the lecture way too many times already.)

Yet when he looked closer, it was a vine and not a snake that entwined the rod. Dean called Sam again, but he still didn't answer. "These people are very weird about their plant life, Sammy," he told the voicemail. "It would be kind of helpful if your research has turned something up on this thorn tree by now."

Inside the medical center was a small waiting room. A woman and child sat at one end and another woman sat alone reading a magazine. The woman with the magazine looked pregnant, although it was never safe to assume. Dean approached the front counter. The woman behind the counter had a name tag that said "Maria" pinned to scrubs with smiley faces on them. "Hi. What kind of doctor's office is this? I mean, is it just women and children?"

Maria smiled and said, "No, sir, we're a full service general practice. Would you like to make an appointment? Is this for a routine checkup?"

"My husband has this rash--" Embarrassing people often worked well at rushing along conversations, but Maria politely waited for him to finish. Medical ick clearly didn't faze her at all and she'd probably been at church on Sunday when Joanna introduced the town's new gay couple. She didn't even do a double take at "husband". He glanced over at the mother and child in the waiting area and reminded himself that he needed to keep things as honest as possible anyway. "Um, we just took up jogging recently and, you know, blisters and all and I got to thinking we should probably see a doctor for checkups before we get too serious about the athletics."

Maria nodded her approval. "Do you have a preferred day when you'd like to schedule your appointments?"

Dean shook his head. "You know, I'll just call back to make the appointments after I've talked to my husband. I just wanted to check the place out first. This is Dr. Washington's office?"

"Oh, we have several doctors on staff in addition to Dr. Washington," she said. "We'd probably schedule you with Dr. Baker for an athletic evaluation. He specialized in sports medicine when he lived in Houston."

"He did it again!" a woman yelled as she burst through the front door.

A man followed behind her clutching a bloody rag wrapped around his fingers. "I was only--"

"Again!" she said throwing her hands in the air.

Maria picked up a phone and paged an orderly and the man was quickly whisked away.

"How many times this month, Amanda?" Maria asked.

Amanda didn't answer, but instead turned her fury on the nearest man. "You think because you have a penis, you automatically know how to use power tools?"

Dean actually felt he was fairly skilled with power tools--sometimes a chainsaw just came in handy--but he was smart enough to know that this wasn't the time to say so. 

"I told him to wait until I got home before trying to set up the new entertainment center. But, no, because he's a _man_ , he thinks he can do it himself. I swear he can't even turn _on_ the power drill without drawing blood."

Dean tsked sympathetically. "Oh, my husband's the same way. You should have seen him trying to light the grill last weekend."

"Oh." She froze mid-rant. "You're, uh, I'm sorry I've forgotten your name. Remington?"

"Winchester. Dean Winchester."

"Right. I'm Amanda Marshall. Pleased to meet you. You're the cartoonist?"

"No, no. That's the hubby. I design clothing. I love your jeans, by the way."

"Really? I don't even remember where I bought these." God bless, Sam. This was the best cover ever. She actually turned around to show him her butt.

"You look amazing in those jeans." And Dean was in danger of outing himself as heterosexual in his sweatpants so he turned back to the counter. "You handle trauma cases here as well?" he asked Maria.

"All the basic emergency care. And Dr. Lopez semi-retired when he moved here, but he still schedules colonoscopies."

"Dr. Lopez is an older guy?" Dean asked. 

"Oh, no. He and his wife are quite young, but I think he got burned out working in the city."

"How'd he afford to semi-retire then?" Dean asked Maria. "I thought doctors all had crazy expensive college loans to pay off."

Amanda answered instead. "Oh, he's a novelist. Murder mysteries. Very successful."

"Wow, that's impressive," Dean said. Dean had had quite enough of writers. He wasn't going to go out of his way to meet the mystery-writing proctologist.

"We have several writers here," Amanda said. "Dr. Lopez writes whodunits. Erica Cavasos writes adventure novels for young readers. John Metzger writes non-fiction, these dreadfully boring books about medieval Europe."

"Medieval Europe sounds interesting," Dean said.

Amanda and Maria both shook their heads. 

"Not the way he writes it," Maria mumbled.

"It's very dry," Amanda said. "You'd think it would be interesting. Plagues and wars and drama, right? But he puts out books on the most academic minutiae."

"Oh, remember the one that had an entire chapter on fireplaces?" Maria said.

"No, pictures, mind you," Amanda said. "No drawings to illustrate medieval architecture. He just _talked_ about it."

"To each his own, I guess." Maria shrugged. "Somewhere out there apparently there are people who want to read about medieval chairs, because he sells his books."

"So, three successful writers just here in Thorncraft?" Dean asked.

"Well, it depends if you count Seth Harrison," Amanda said. "He writes poetry. He's been published in several magazines and a couple of collections."

"And don't forget Delilah Devereaux," Maria added with a wink.

Amanda shushed her and glanced back to the waiting area. The mother and child were now gone. "Have you read any Delilah Devereaux?" she asked Dean.

"I'm not familiar with her work," Dean said. 

"She writes," Amanda said lowering her voice, " _romances_."

"Ah. I don't really--"

"You _need_ to read Delilah Devereaux," Maria said.

"It's an alias, of course," Amanda said. "Not everyone here knows."

" _Robert_ doesn't know," Maria added.

"I promise to be discreet," Dean said.

"I tell you what," Amanda said. "You read a Delilah Devereaux book and if you like it, I'll tell you who she _really_ is."

Amanda's husband returned, bandaged and looking chagrined as he clutched a prescription in his good hand. Amanda took the paper out of his hand and then laughed. "I love Dr. Washington. 'No power drills for a month.'"

***** The Washingtons *****

Dean jogged back to the Washingtons' and managed to get there before anyone had made it home. He didn't have to wait long though, because just a few minutes later a teenage girl in a school uniform shuffled down the street towards him. A wild mane of curls framed her dark face.

"Hi!" he called out to her. "You must be Haylee Washington."

She grunted vaguely in a way he hoped was an affirmative. "You're the fashion designer?"

"Yeah."

"You don't look like a fashion designer."

"I've been jogging. Even fashion designers are allowed to slum it occasionally. My name's Dean."

"Dean what?" she asked. "They said at church that your name was Winchester, but Ashley said you were some big deal in New York named Emerson."

"Not really a big deal, no, but I design under the name Emerson, yes."

"Why?"

"It sounded cool at the time?" Dean shrugged.

"It really doesn't," she said.

"Well, too late now," Dean said. "So, anyway, your dad said he needed help with some renovations. He's redoing the master bath?"

"Adding a hot tub," she said, rolling her eyes. Parental hot tubs were apparently quite mortifying.

"Awesome," Dean said, smiling.

The girl said nothing.

"I should look into putting in a hot tub," Dean said.

The girl still said nothing.

"Yup," Dean said. "Hot tubs are neat. So, you all have lived in Thorncraft a while?"

"Practically forever," she said. "My brother was born here. I can barely remember our old apartment."

"He was actually born _here_? A home birth?"

"No, Mom went to the med center. I don't remember who delivered him. Dr. Landon, I suppose."

"That little medical center, it's almost like a tiny hospital then, isn't it?" Dean asked. "That's impressive."

She shrugged. "It's all we have."

"You must have been what, three or four, when you moved here?"

"Six."

"Six years old? The HAT contract said no new children over the age of four."

She smiled for the first time. "Oh, the Mad Hatters changed that rule after me."

"Changed that rule after you? Or changed that rule _because_ of you?" 

Her smile widened. In fact, she looked downright sunny. "Come on in. I'll show you the mess Dad made of the bathroom."

He was once again struck by the naiveté of the locals. They seemed paranoid about protecting the community from the outside and then took it for granted that nothing already inside could be a danger to them. Within minutes of meeting him, Haylee lead him inside and showed him her parents' master bathroom.

It was, as she'd said, a mess. Holes had been knocked in the drywall seemingly at random. Pipes jutted from the floor and wall where the old tub had been. The tile had been damaged in the process of removing the tub. The commode had developed an ominous tilt.

"Wow. That's, um, wow."

"There's a plumber here in town," Haylee said. He noticed she referred to Thorncraft as a town without any hesitation despite the fact that the development didn't appear on any map as such. "A general contractor too. And it's not like he can't afford professional help. But he got it into his head that this was going to be easy."

"And as a florist, he's had a lot of experience with home renovations?" Dean asked.

Haylee laughed. "Well, he used to be a landscaper before he became a florist, so he _thinks_ he's got experience with this kind of manual labor."

"Oh, and let me guess, the plumber and the contractor are friends of his and there's some sort of wager regarding how long it will take before he has to ask them to fix it."

"Bam! On the nose! You are good, Mr. Fashion Designer. The question is, are you good with a wrench, or are you going to be another Hank Marshall?"

"Amanda Marshall's husband? He didn't try to help, did he?"

She nodded. "It was pretty gruesome." She made it sound like the most exciting thing that had happened in months.

Dean made a list of what needed done and promised to come back the next day when her father was home and see if they couldn't make a little progress without bloodying themselves. While he was poking around, he gave Haylee a seemingly idle lecture about the importance of continuing on with college. 

"I've always said that a college degree is the most important thing you can have." 

He watched her carefully as he said it. Haylee looked at him oddly, but she didn't exactly frown. 

"Well, whatever. I'll be at the academy until I graduate and then I guess I could do one of those online distance learning things if I wanted, but I don't see the point. I don't want to be a doctor or anything like that."

"Why online courses? Why not actually go away to a university? If your parents can afford to destroy their bathroom putting in a hot tub, they can afford to send you to college."

"I can't leave," Haylee said. She seemed confused at the suggestion. 

"Why not?"

"I, I don't know. I just, I can't leave Thorncraft."

"What, ever?"

Haylee shifted awkwardly. Her confused expression was spreading rather than clearing. It was if she was just realizing it for the first time. And then she shrugged and said, "Not ever."

"You do leave sometimes though?" Dean asked. "To visit relatives or go on vacation?"

She shook her head.

"You at least go out for the occasional McDonald's run, right?"

"There aren't any McDonald's in Thorncraft," Haylee said.

"But there's one just outside. Just down the road."

She looked at him blankly.

"Just a few miles down the road," Dean said. "Across the freeway. Right next to the Denny's."

"I remember McDonald's," she said hesitantly, as if she weren't quite sure. "They had skinny little fries, not like the ones at Barb's Grill."

"McDonald's fries are _way_ better than the ones at Barb's Grill," Dean said. She frowned at him and he amended that. "Okay, not better, but sometimes you get a craving for salty grease sticks and McDonald's is just the only place for you."

She nodded. There was something wistful in her expression. Dean didn't understand. They had Internet here. They had television here. The kids were inundated with all the same advertisements. No one was begging their parents for a Happy Meal? No one was demanding a trip to Disney World? Something had these kids wrapped around its little finger and so far only Haylee--who by the current association bylaws was too old when she moved here--seemed even a tiny bit intrigued by the world outside.

"I'll tell you what," Dean said. "We've still got time before your parents get home. Why don't I take you out on a McDonald's run?"

Haylee laughed. "What? For real?"

"Sure. Why not?" Dean could think of a couple of reasons why not himself, mainly involving the fact that he was a complete stranger that she'd only just met and only had his word for the fact that he even knew her father. That did not appear to be one of her concerns though.

"I shouldn't--outside, really? That's like--whoa--I don't think--"

"My treat," Dean said. "I'll even buy you a sundae." 

"Is it far?" Haylee asked

"Nah, not far at all. The first time I met Mary-Jane was at the Denny's right across the street."

Haylee's eyes widened. "Mary-Jane _Jones_? Little Miss Perfect? She went outside? As far as the Denny's?"

"Yup."

"Well, hell, yeah, then!" Haylee bounced. Dean steadfastly reminded himself that she was only fifteen. "Let me change! Just a minute!"

Dean rolled his eyes and had visions of her taking forever to get ready, but she was changed and ready in minutes. She literally raced him back to the house on Oak Street where the minivan waited in the driveway.

"It's so cute!" she squealed when she saw the _dusty rose_ minivan and she bounced again. It was a sight that Dean felt might well have earned him a few weeks of those years in hell.

Dean was on edge as they drove out the gate. He half expected the hedgerow to close in on them. Haylee was bouncing so much, she was practically jogging in place in the passenger seat. It was more than half a lifetime ago that she'd been outside. It was a dull site--flat land, few trees, scrubby grass, the really boring part of the American Midwest--but Haylee looked both terrified and eager as they left Thorncraft behind and entered this strange world.

The transmission that Sam hinted was iffy was essentially non-existent and the automatic was now only functional as a manual making second gear the top speed possible. There was very little traffic out this far, but every single car that did pass, passed with the horn honking.

Halfway there, Haylee had second thoughts. "We should go back. This is too far."

"It's okay," Dean reassured her. "The van is slow, but it'll get us there and back."

"Are you sure Mary-Jane came this far?"

"Yeah, we met at the Denny's. And she and her father picked us up once in front of the Marriott up there."

"We should go there then."

"The Marriott?"

"The Denny's. We should go to the Denny's. I don't want to go to McDonald's! I don't!" Her voice rose until she was screaming. "Stop the car! Stop! I don't want to go to the McDonald's! I want to go to the Denny's! Stop!"

Dean jerked the vehicle off the road and turned into the nearest parking lot. "It's okay. It's okay. Breathe."

Haylee was sobbing and rocking in her seat.

"Deep breath," Dean said.

She nodded and took several careful breaths as she tried to calm down. "I don't want to go to the McDonald's," she said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. You don't have to go to the McDonald's."

The car was silent for several minutes save for the sound of Haylee's jagged breathing. Eventually, she was under control again.

"Is that the Denny's up there?" she asked. The yellow sign was visible in the distance just before the freeway exchange.

"Yeah."

"Can we go to Denny's instead?" she asked calmly.

"Sure," Dean said. "Sure."

The truck stop parking lot that he'd pulled into connected by a series of driveways to the string of roadside hotels and restaurants and he took them the rest of the way to the Denny's without getting back onto the main road. He kept one eye on Haylee the whole way.

When he parked the car, she smiled suddenly. "We made it," she said with relief. Then she laughed and got out of the car.

They walked inside and a waitress told them to sit anywhere and then she did a double take that Dean imagined was suspicious. Because they were back in the real world now and in the real world people worried when a grown man seemed to be traveling with an underage girl who didn't look like a relative.

Haylee was subdued now, almost shy. She looked around as if fascinated and then picked a booth by the front window. They were only one booth down from where he'd sat the day he'd met Mary-Jane. Right there was the spot where he got down on one knee and proposed to Castiel. It all felt very surreal.

The view outside the Denny's was about as dull as you could get. It didn't compare at all to picturesque Thorncraft, but Haylee kept staring. _Well_ , Dean thought, _what's the surface of the moon, but a boring stretch of rock?_

"You really haven't been outside Thorncraft at all since you first moved there?" Dean asked, though at this point it wasn't really a question anymore.

The waitress brought them water glasses and glared openly at both of them as she did so.

"What's your problem?" Haylee asked as she flipped open the menu. 

"I have no problem," the waitress said. "I'm just concerned for your well being. Is everything all right here?"

"Everything's fine," Dean said with a lazy smile. He didn't know how to explain racism or ageism or any of the false assumptions people might make about them, particularly at a roadside diner that existed, like the gas stations and hotels around it, only as an oasis of civilization at a freeway junction. No doubt they saw their fair share of disreputable business deals conducted at all hours.

"I be his delinquent foster daughter," Haylee drawled--reminding him that while physically isolated she was well aware of pop culture beyond the hedgerow. "He going to learn me culture and how to eat white people food."

"Haylee," Dean chided her. "I don't think your parents taught you to speak that way. I _will_ rat you out to them if you keep it up. And do _not_ sass waitresses because waitresses _will_ spit in your food."

"No way. Have you ever spit in someone's food?" Haylee asked the waitress.

"Never!"

"Ew." Haylee made a face at Dean. "Maybe we should try the truck stop back over there."

Dean smiled at the waitress again. "Ma'am, I'm really sorry if we said anything to offend you. In fact, I'm going to leave you a really big tip. I promise. Do you promise not to spit in our food?"

"Of course," the waitress said. 

Dean glanced at Haylee. "Okay?"

Haylee nodded.

"In that case, bring us a plate of nachos. Haylee, anything else?"

"Diet Coke."

The waitress left but glanced back over her shoulder several times.

Haylee burst out laughing.

"Okay, I have got to ask," Dean said. "How does the lie-detector thing work?"

"What?"

"You _knew_ when she lied to you. And you were giving me the suspicious head-tilt when I was giving you the lecture on responsible adulthood, something I think we both know that I know almost nothing about. So, I repeat, how does the lie-detector thing work? How do you know when someone's lying to you?"

Haylee shook her head. "It's just obvious."

"It's like a psychic thing? You hear voices? A buzzer goes off in your head? What?"

"No!" Haylee laughed. She'd clearly decided he was silly, harmless and silly. Dean Winchester was not used to being classified as harmless and silly.

"Then what's it like?"

"It just, just--" Haylee sighed in frustration. "It's _obvious_. It, it smells gray?" She waved vaguely in the air. "Does that make sense?"

"Not really. Lies smell gray?"

"Kind of yellowy sometimes. Yellowy gray. If it's not a big lie, then maybe just gray. Like, well, you know, little white lies smell really pale gray, almost white. That's why they call them that, right?"

"I don't think so," Dean said. "You can smell color?"

"No. Just words sometimes smell and when words do smell, they smell like colors.

"Yellowy gray?"

Haylee nodded.

"So when I lectured you about college?"

"Gray."

"And when the waitress said she was only concerned about your welfare?"

"Yellow."

"And when she said she'd never spit in anyone's food?"

"Bright yellow with, like, green overtones."

"Ew."

"That's what I said, right?"

"Gray smells bad?"

"Yeah."

"Yellow smells worse?"

"Yeah."

"So, every time I tell a lie, I basically have halitosis?"

"Yuh-huh. So I'd appreciate it if you didn't lie while I'm eating. Okay?"

"All the kids in Thorncraft can do this?"

"They're all better at it than I am," Haylee admitted, "but that's okay by me. Jessica Carter said she once _puked_ it smelled so gross this time when her mom and dad got into a fight and her dad swore he'd never once even looked at another woman."

Dean winced. "Oh, that's a stupid lie."

"I know, right?"

"And when _you_ be lying, Miss Delinquent?"

She giggled. "Yeah, then too, but it's not as bad when you expect it."

"Like other people's farts always smell worse than your own?" Dean asked.

"You are _gross_!" She laughed. "I didn't think gay guys were supposed to be gross."

"Yeah, well, that's where stereotypes lead people astray."

The waitress brought their order and Dean asked her again if she had spit in or done anything else gross to their food and Haylee agreed she was telling the truth so they ate it and left the big tip as promised.

"Okay, we've come all this way," Dean said as they stepped back out into the parking lot. "We have to at least get an order of McDonald's fries. Okay?"

Haylee shook her head. "I'm not getting back in that van unless you promise me we're going straight home."

"It's just over there," Dean said, pointing at the golden arches on the other side of the highway. "If it would make you feel better, why don't we just walk?"

Haylee nodded hesitantly. They walked a dozen yards or so beyond the Denny's and Haylee began to slow down, taking smaller and smaller steps. They passed the driveway leading to the Marriott and then she was barely inching forward. In front of the Shell, the last business before the freeway underpass, she came to a stop. "I--Dean, I don't think--I, no. I can't go that way."

She was sweating. She didn't look frightened this time so much as resigned. "This is as far as I go," she said. "You go. Bring me back fries and a caramel sundae, okay?"

"Are you sure?" Dean asked.

She started to take a step forward, but changed her mind mid-stride and swung her foot back before touching the ground again. "I'm sure. This is as far as I go." 

Dean felt responsible for Haylee. He had basically lured her away from home without her parents' permission and if anything happened to her it would be his fault. He glanced around until he spotted the Shell station's security camera. "You see that camera? Stay in view of that camera. Any weirdos bug you, just point out that they're being watched. Okay?"

She nodded.

Just the other side of the highway was the grass embankment where the Jeffersons' car had finally come to rest and burned out a patch of grass. Dean had watched the footage from that very Shell station camera and he knew that it was just another twenty yards from where Haylee insisted on stopping that their car had burst into flames. Dean didn't believe in coincidences.

**end chapter five**

  



	6. Chapter 6

***** Bunny Mugs and Bedtime Stories *****

Dean got Haylee back to the house before either her parents or her brother got home. In fact, Dr. Washington texted to say she was running late and Frank Washington called to say he'd gotten caught up in a meeting with the Joneses about the upcoming wedding arrangements. 

"Do we need to go by the school and pick up your brother?" Dean asked.

Haylee looked at him like he'd grown an extra head or something. "Why? The school is just in the center of town. You've seen it, right? Just next to the church. It's, like, a ten-minute walk."

"It's okay for him to walk that far on his own?"

"He's nine. He's not retarded."

"Right."

Dean dropped Haylee off and then got lost twice trying to find his way home. There were no right-angled intersections in Thorncraft. None of the streets were precisely straight either. It didn't seem so bad, coming in off the main roads from the gates, because those four roads--Mulberry, Dogwood, Hazelnut, and Fig Street--all led in a slightly winding way into the center of Thorncraft, where they each ended on Vine Circle. But all the other streets branched out of those and then again off of each other and Dean, who normally had an excellent sense of direction, kept losing his place on his mental map of where he was. It didn't help that all the fucking streets were named after fucking trees. Did Elm branch off of Pine or Maple? Did you find your way back to Oak by following Poplar or Walnut?

It had been a long strange day with little progress, but lots of weird stuff to think about and Sam still wasn't answering his phone. Dean was tired and discouraged by the time he got home.

He walked in and saw the stack of books on the coffee table first. Then he noticed the mug. It was Castiel's mug, the one Sam had created online with the horrid bunny, only here it was for real.

"Cas?" he called, not expecting an answer. If Castiel had left Thorncraft as planned, he couldn't imagine him being eager to return.

Castiel wandered out of the kitchen. He looked a little ragged around the edges. Whatever was sapping his powers was taking a toll.

"I thought you were planning on leaving the crappy human world."

Castiel shifted his gaze away and then back to Dean. "I reconsidered."

"Reconsidered?"

"My sources weren't able to give me any information about this area before I came here. There's no reason to think I'd have better luck now."

"Huh." _That_ answer struck Dean as entirely unsatisfactory, but he let it slide. He pointed at the mug. "I thought the package delivery we signed up for didn't make any deliveries until Saturday."

"They don't," Castiel said.

"Where'd the mug come from?"

"Bookstore," Castiel said. "The owner had them shipped next-day express delivery."

"He ordered your bunny mugs?"

Castiel nodded. "He had a whole shelf of them. There was even a sign. 'Local Artist: Cassie Emerson.'"

"Cool. A few more bucks in the PayPal account."

"I checked that account," Castiel said. "There's actually more of a balance than the bookstore stock would explain."

Dean squinted at the mug and then at Castiel. "People are _buying_ these?"

"Apparently."

"On purpose?"

Castiel said nothing.

"Seriously, I thought the two we bought for show would be it. You knew I ordered them, right? You didn't need to buy another mug."

"The man at the bookstore gave it to me. He seemed very excited. He also made me take the extra books," Castiel said. "He was very insistent about local artists appreciating each other. Seth Harrison was there as well. Did you know he writes poetry?"

Dean nodded as he picked up Delilah Devereaux's first two novels. One had a raven and a castle on the cover and the other had a horse, but both featured a woman made of blonde curls and breasts. "What do you think?" Dean asked, holding the book up. "Is this worth a kid?"

"People have sold children for a lot less than a successful career," Castiel said.

"Not just a successful career, a successful _dream_ career," Dean said. "Seth Harrison is a professional poet. _No one_ is a professional poet. There's a guy here who apparently makes a living writing dull treatises on coffee tables throughout history."

Castiel nodded. "And the children are perfectly behaved and self-sufficient. Many parents wouldn't even view this arrangement as a sacrifice."

"Is this real?" Dean asked. "Or is this some mass hallucination that makes it all _look_ like the American Dream?"

"Jimmy's wife used to read Delilah Devereaux novels," Castiel said. "It's real."

Dean called Sam again, but hung up when he was shunted to voice mail. "Damn it! All right," he said. "If I have to make a guess. My target is that tree-bush thing. If I'm not mistaken, it's in the physical dead center of this place and those runes on the fence around it pretty much prove it's the center of all the weirdness. But what do we do? Set fire to it? Cut it down? Do we need to do a counter ritual?"

Castiel shrugged and then rubbed his eyes. "Honestly, I have no idea. Since arriving here, I haven't been able to see anything beyond the surface. I feel half blind."

"Welcome to humanity. Sucks, huh?"

Castiel stared at nothing in particular.

"Did you _try_ to leave today?" Dean thought of Haylee's inability to stray more than a few miles away and shuddered. "Or did you really just change your mind?"

"I thought about leaving," Castiel explained, "but then _I thought_ it made more sense to stay."

Dean couldn't help but notice that Castiel put a little too much emphasis on that second "I" and Castiel was the king of protesting too much. Dean remembered him saying that Jimmy seemed to like it here.

"Did you decide to stay to be nice to Jimmy?"

Castiel blinked at him. He seemed confused enough by the suggestion that Dean questioned whether he'd missed the mark on that. "That's absurd. I have no interest in staying here a moment longer than necessary. But, as you insist on staying until you've solved your mystery, I will assist in whatever way is most efficient. So, what now?" Castiel asked.

"We've done our bit," Dean said. "Sam just needs to get back to us with the research and tell us what to do. So, in the meantime, we kick back and relax."

"Relax?" Castiel asked.

Dean had to fight back a laugh. Relaxing was the easiest thing in the world for everyone except Castiel. "Jimmy said he needed some time to get back to me on what he wants. He's had some time to think. What would he like to do?"

"Dean, this isn't a vacation. We have other things to do. Things that affect all of creation, not just one inconsequential housing development."

"Blah, blah, whatever. There was a notepad, a shopping list or whatever, on the fridge. Do me a favor and go grab it. And a pen."

Castiel obediently retrieved the requested items.

"Now sit down over there," Dean said pointing at the table across the room.

Castiel sat.

"Does it say anything at the top? 'To Do List' or 'Shopping List' or something like that?"

"'Things To Buy,'" Castiel read.

"Scratch out 'To Buy.'"

Castiel scratched.

"Now under 'Things' write 'That Jimmy Likes To Do' and then write a list of things that Jimmy likes to do."

Castiel shook his head. "Dean--"

"What did Jimmy used to do during his free time before you glommed onto him? What did he never get around to doing that he'd like to try? Write."

"Dean," Castiel said. "I don't think you understand how this works. Jimmy isn't a person anymore. He is the vessel only. The person you think you're talking about is just an echo. And an insane echo at that. He kicks and sings and shouts and babbles, but he's not capable of truly coherent--" 

"Cas, look me in the eye," Dean said and when Castiel only glanced at him, he repeated the order firmly. " _Look me in the eye._ Whose fault is it if Jimmy is insane now?"

"I had to--" 

"Whose fault?" Dean repeated.

"Jimmy _asked_ , even _prayed_ , to have a greater part in God's plan," Castiel said. 

"And you and I both know damned well that this was a helluva lot more than he bargained for. You know why I think you're not taking this thing here seriously? Because you still don't respect that human beings matter. If someone wants to slip into a human suit, even a newborn baby human suit, you just don't see that as a big deal."

"I--"

"I talked to one of the kids here today. A girl who was just a little bit too old when her family moved here for whatever this thing is to take her over completely, but it's still controlling her. She can't leave. Ever. She tried. She has just enough free will to think about leaving, but not enough to make it happen. And Robert's a pain in the ass, but something has been controlling him almost his whole life and I'd imagine that's bound to make a body cranky."

"Dean--" 

"And before you start in on me about _more important things_ , you tell me this. What's the damn point of 'the good guys' winning this war against Lucifer if the 'good' guys let crap like this happen? Because if the ends justify the means, there is just not a lot separating the good from the bad. You know that, right? If you think humans are yours to stomp on whenever you find it convenient, maybe you belong on the other team after all."

Castiel put the pen down and continued to stare at Dean. After a long and heavy silence, he said, "I'm sorry."

"Well, that's a start," Dean said. "Now show me that list."

Castiel glanced down at the piece of paper and then gawped at Dean. He really hadn't been aware that he had continued to write while Dean chewed him out. Castiel picked up the list and handed it to Dean.

He handed him the pages and that's when Dean realized there were two piece of paper and not just one. The first was labeled "Used To Do" and the second "Want To Do."

Dean set the lists on the coffee table and patted the couch next to him. Castiel sat.

Dean leaned over the lists and read them aloud. "'Used To Do: wake up, shower, get dressed, commute, work, commute, help daughter with homework, eat dinner, play games (usually Scrabble and Bible Trivia), Bible reading, daughter's bedtime including family prayers, give wife foot rub while she reads, sometimes leading to canoodling and sex, bed. Repeat.'"

Dean glanced up at Castiel. Neither said anything.

Dean continued, "'Want To Do: Eat _real_ baked macaroni and cheese again.'" The word real was underlined. "You don't bake mac and cheese," Dean said. "You make it in a pot on the stove."

Castiel opened his mouth to speak, but Dean shushed him. "Explain later. There's more. 'Sleep in a real bed again. Take a hot bath. Walk on the beach. Read a good book. Sleep. Canoodle. Listen to classical music while doing nothing. Sex. Sleep.'"

Dean looked up from the list and stared Castiel hard in the eye, the bloodshot eye, the bloodshot eye with a dark circle under it.

"I seem to be noticing a recurring theme. Jimmy mentions sleep more often than sex. Three to two, if we generously count 'canoodle' as sex, when, if I understand the term correctly, it's really more fore-foreplay. Otherwise it's three to one." Dean looked suspiciously at Castiel. He'd taken his worn out features to be another side effect of whatever was blocking his powers. "Did you sleep last night?" 

"Yes."

"Eight hours?"

"No."

"How many?"

"One and a half."

"And about the same every night since we've been here?" Dean asked.

"I didn't sleep the first night," Castiel admitted, "but Monday night I deliberately lay down for a few hours. I seem to be having difficulty functioning at peak efficiency."

"Ya think?" Dean rubbed his own forehead. The very idea of surviving on so little sleep made his head hurt and Castiel only seemed mildly annoyed that it was affecting his efficiency. "You knew the minute you went through the gate that this place sapped your powers and yet it didn't occur to you that you might need a full night's sleep every night?"

Castiel looked mildly offended. "I'm capable of controlling the vessel's--"

"Have you _eaten_ today?" Dean asked.

Castiel frowned. "Gerry at the bookstore made me eat a chocolate chip cookie."

"As long as we're undercover as a normal human couple, please note that 'made me' and 'eat a chocolate chip cookie' do not belong in the same sentence."

Castiel nodded solemnly.

"Is there a bakery in the bookstore or something?" Dean asked. 

"No. His boyfriend made them."

Dean nodded and then did a double-take. "Boyfriend?"

"Yes."

"How did _they_ get the marriage clause waived?"

"They didn't," Castiel said. "Gerry is married to a woman, as is David, but it's apparently not a secret that Gerry and David are involved."

"Were they already a couple and they married women in order to move to Thorncraft?"

"That sounded like the basic scenario, except Maria and Catherine were the established couple. It was apparently a happy coincidence that Gerry and David hit it off."

"Wow. And here I thought we were all groundbreaking. Thorncraft's first gay couple. But David and Gerry are out, huh?"

"I think that's why Seth Harrison was there. He's still looking for someone to impregnate his wife. He asked me if I had reconsidered. I'm not sure why he's so intent on recruiting a gay man for this task. It seems he would have a much better chance of finding an interested party if he talked to heterosexuals."

"I imagine he's looking for someone capable of doing the deed without getting too enthusiastic with the missus."

"He's propositioning men to have sexual relations with his wife while simultaneously harboring feelings of jealousy?"

"Humans are complex," Dean explained. "So," he added, glancing back at the list. "Jimmy likes to give foot rubs?"

"I believe that's on the 'have done' rather than 'want to do' list," Castiel said.

"Still," Dean said, "we have books to read that I'm rather expecting to be quizzed about later and this first list said that Jimmy used to give his wife foot rubs while she read and this second list said that Jimmy would like to relax with a good book. So, two birds, one stone?" 

He waggled an eyebrow and smiled at Castiel, who only looked back at him gravely and nodded. It was absolutely no fun teasing Castiel if he was going to take everything so seriously.

"All right," Dean said, "here's the plan for the evening. You are going to eat something. I think there are still a few pot pies in the freezer. Nuke one of them. When you're done eating, it's time for a bedtime story. One of us will start book one of Delilah Devereaux and share highlights and the other will provide foot rubs. And then you are going to bed. I'll take the couch tonight."

"That's not necessary," Castiel said.

"Castiel, you look like the walking dead. Mortal means needing to sleep on a regular basis." Castiel opened his mouth to protest, but Dean cut him off. "And, no, an hour and a half a day does not count as regular."

Without further protest, Castiel microwaved what turned out to be the last of the Jeffersons' pot pies. When he was done, he washed his utensils and wiped down the counter and finally, under Dean's watchful glare, returned and sat at the other end of the couch.

Dean kicked off his shoes, put a throw pillow under his head, and lazily scooped the romance novels off the table with one hand. "Which is the beginning and which is the ending?" Castiel was just staring into space, so Dean swung his feet into his lap. When he still didn't seem to get the hint, Dean waggled a sock-clad toe under his nose. "Not rubbing themselves," he muttered.

"The second book isn't the conclusion," Castiel said with a pained expression that likely owed a lot to the olfactory qualities of Dean's socks. Dean _almost_ felt guilty. "There are over a dozen books in the series. I understand she's expected to publish more."

"Why didn't he just give you the first one then?" Dean was dreading the idea that he might be expected to read over a dozen romance novels. "Why bother with the second one if it's not the conclusion?" Castiel peeled off Dean's socks with forefinger and thumb and, one after the other, deposited them on top of Dean's shoes. He frowned and gave Dean what looked like a deliberate scowl. If he'd had his mojo on, Dean suspected the socks would have been incinerated just then.

Castiel poked awkwardly at Dean's feet as he answered, "Gerry seemed to think the second book was important, but he said we had to read the first book to understand the second."

"So which is the first one?" Dean asked. He had, admittedly, not thought this all the way through, mainly because he hadn't expected Castiel to go along with it, so the whole this-is-a-little-awkward thing was entirely his fault. However, Castiel seemed more uncomfortable with the situation than he was, so it still totally counted as a win.

"There should be a list somewhere in the beginning of the book. If nothing else, a publication date." Castiel took a throw pillow and placed it in his lap to prop up Dean's feet. Dean tried to not think about why he'd done that and especially to not think too much about a warm shape he might have felt his right foot brush against just before that moment. Certain things you just don't need to think about it. But if what Dean thought _might_ have just happened actually _did_ happen it was damned funny.

"For the record, we never mention this part to Sammy." Dean finally settled in with the book with the castle on the cover. "Here we go. It's a book about a woman with magical breasts and her pet raven that keeps getting lost in her hair."

"Dean."

"Okay. Okay." Dean flipped the book open and muttered, "But I bet she'd sell more books if they were about a woman with magical breasts."

Castiel gave pathetic foot rubs. He grokked that feet were involved and a general rubbing of some sort was called for, but that was about it. On the plus side, Dean no longer felt the slightest bit embarrassed about having a guy rub his feet since there was pretty much no way at all this could be considered romantic or sensual or even particularly pleasant. On the negative side, the dude sucked at foot rubs. _What the hell? Who can't give a foot rub? How hard is this?_

Dean skimmed the first two chapters and gave Castiel a summary. "Princess Madison is the secret love child of the widowed queen and the court wizard, raised in the secret castle tower accessible only through a secret tunnel behind a secret door, yadda, yadda, she _does_ have magical powers of some kind but it's still vague what those are. Okay, your turn."

He tossed the book to Castiel who made no attempt to catch it and just stared at where the book had landed.

"I read the first two chapters. Your turn to read the next one and while you're doing it, I'll show you how foot rubs are supposed to work. Jimmy likes foot rubs, right? Everybody likes foot rubs. It's a useful skill to know."

They repositions themselves and Dean had to tug Castiel's shoes off because he hadn't bothered himself. Dean settled in and began rubbing Castiel's stockinged feet (because it was less weird if his feet weren't naked and his socks didn't smell _that_ bad so it was fine) and Castiel opened the book to chapter three. Instead of skimming and summarizing, he actually started reading the story out loud. 

Dean took care to give Castiel a proper foot rub which meant, okay, the socks were going to have to go eventually. It started as a favor to Jimmy, but it also annoyed him that Castiel was so bad at it. No one with so many thousands of years of life experience--if Castiel's existence counted as a life--should be as inept as Castiel was at so many things. A lesson in proper foot rubs would do him good. He had just slipped off one of Castiel's socks when they achieved throbbing manhood status. 

"Wait. Read that again."

Castiel bit his lower lip. He looked rather like he'd regretted reading it the first time, but he finally repeated, "'She freed his throbbing manhood.'"

"Are you still on chapter three?"

"Beginning of four."

"There are never sex scenes in chapter four," Dean said. "And certainly not with the boring guy."

Dean was no expert on romance novels. He'd probably read a dozen in his life and never by choice, but only because laundromats were boring places and the only paperbacks anyone ever left behind in the magazine racks were romance novels. There had been a stakeout once in an old house and he'd found a whole box of books slightly musty with age with pre-printed sale prices of $1.99. Those books had been thin and he'd read one each day and the stakeout had lasted the better part of a week. Also Sammy had thought it was funny to bring him books with flowers all over the covers the last time he'd been laid up in the hospital. 

So he'd read enough of the things to know that there was never a graphic sex scene in chapter four with the boring, polite guy. The books always started with a young woman, often a virgin--if the publication date was early enough, that was guaranteed--who found herself at odds with an arrogant, often rich, always tall and muscular man. If there was a polite, boring guy in the book, he was guaranteed to _not_ get the girl, not even if the heroine was engaged to him in chapter one. If there was a sex scene at all--and in those old $1.99 books, the sex scene was always left to the imagination after the final line--that sex scene was only going to be with the strong, brooding guy with the big shoulders and that would be much, much later in the book. 

"I think you should read the rest of this chapter," Castiel said, sitting up and pulling his feet out of Dean's reach. He handed off the book, but then got up and walked off rather than take another turn at foot rubs. 

"Coward," Dean muttered. 

One of Castiel's few talents was the ability to do absolutely nothing at all. Dean didn't get it, but eternity must train you to accept boredom. Dean read and Castiel just stood on the other side of the room and watched him.

The princess had sex with the Duke of Dullsville, uncovered clues to her father's murder, set out on a quest to retrieve the stolen mystical whatsit, and, oh, now there was a cute stable boy. 

"For the record," Dean said, "sex in hay is _not_ recommended. Hay is a lot sharper than it looks."

"I'll take your word for it," Castiel said.

"Jimmy's wife used to read these books?" Dean asked. 

Castiel nodded. "She re-read the Delilah Devereaux books several times actually. She often did her reading when Jimmy was doing his evening Bible study."

"I bet Jimmy could count on getting lucky those nights," Dean said with a wink and then noticed that Castiel was frowning even more than usual. "Oh, poor Jimmy, we just stomped on another illusion, didn't we?"

Castiel nodded. He looked pretty pathetic to begin with and his expression was only accentuating the dark circles under his eyes.

"All right, bedtime for you," Dean said.

"I'm fine."

"Stop being an idiot," Dean said. "Something is blocking your powers and that means you have to rely on food and sleep to recharge like the rest of us mortals. Sam packed pajamas for you. Put them on. Go sleep in the bed. I've got the couch."

"You shouldn't have to sleep on the couch," Castiel said.

"Go." 

Dean flipped the book back open and finished reading the improbable sex scene with the stable hand. It was only chapter seven. _Poor, Jimmy._ He skimmed through chapters eight and nine--blah, blah, quest, blah, blah--and realized he was halfway through the book and there was still no male character emerging as the romantic lead, but there _was_ a lanky cavalry officer who looked like he was going to be conquest number three in the next chapter or so. "This isn't a romance novel. This is fantasy porn," Dean mumbled to himself. "This is awesome."

He glanced up and saw Castiel hovering in the hallway leading out of the living room. He was wearing flannel plaid pajamas and Dean thought that he needed a teddy bear to complete the picture. "What?" Dean asked. "You want a glass of water? I already read you a bedtime story. Go. Sleep."

"If you want to share the bed, I don't mind," Castiel said. "The couch isn't very comfortable."

Dean had to admit this was true. It was comfortable enough for lounging, but it was narrow for sleeping and Dean had already wondered if he would be better off just moving the cushions to the floor. And really this was the only way he could be sure that Castiel actually slept instead of just standing around like a statue or whatever it was that Castiel did.

Dean set the book on the coffee table, brushed his teeth, shucked off his clothes, and crawled into bed--the final thought caused a chuckle--with his husband. _Nope, nothing weird at all here. Still, never ever mentioning this to Sammy._ It was a warm enough night that Dean was comfortable in a T-shirt and boxers. As he was drifting to sleep he thought to himself that Castiel was going to roast in flannel pajamas.

**end chapter six**


	7. Chapter 7

***** Good Morning *****

Dean woke in a sweat, thinking muzzily that he had a fever or that a heat wave had rolled in overnight. He was uncomfortable for a litany of reasons: he was hot and sweaty, he was subsequently dehydrated from sweating, his left leg from the calf down was first numb and then afire with pins and needles, his bladder was full, and in complete contradiction to all of the rest, he was sporting some very enthusiastic morning wood. Also, the sunlight oozing in the windows was pale and weak and though he couldn't read the clock from this angle, he guessed the time at somewhere on the wrong side of six o'clock. Too damn early to do anything but take a piss and curl up back in bed. 

Except he couldn't move on account of the leaden mound of flannel pinning him to the bed. At some point in the night, Castiel had apparently decided that he made a good pillow. Well, he wanted him to get some sleep. And it was even kind of funny that the same guy who was swearing he didn't need to sleep was now draped across him dead to the world.

The trick now was how to slide out from under Castiel without waking him. They were very awkwardly intertwined, which no doubt accounted for how his foot had fallen asleep, and Castiel was even clutching a fistful of Dean's T-shirt in one hand. Dean's erection was also poking Castiel square in the stomach and that would just be embarrassing if he woke up now. Dean tried scooting out to one side, but Castiel just rolled with him and clutched even tighter to his shirt. Dean gave up and stared for awhile at the ceiling. The light was still too faint to really see the ceiling and even the light fixture was only a vague shape that he might only possibly be imagining. 

He tried to will away his erection, will away his need to pee, and ignore his thirst. He failed at all of these things. The morning light was only slightly brighter when it was his thirst that finally broke him. To hell with decorum. Castiel played the fool, but he had to understand the basics of human reflexes and if an innocent case of morning wood embarrassed him, so what? 

Dean shook Castiel by the shoulder, "Cas, wake up. "

Castiel breathed deeply and made a little noise that was not quite a yawn and not quite a whimper. 

"Cas," Dean said louder. "You're smothering me here. You have to move."

Castiel made another sound, this one more on the side of whimper, but with a hint of mumble. Dean wasn't sure if he was actually trying to speak or not.

"Cas, come on. Wake up."

Castiel clumsily slapped his fingers over Dean's lips. The first attempt hit his nose. "Shhhhh," he said. "Don wake'm."

"Ca--"

"Shhhhh," he repeated. He wriggled up higher and put his mouth to Dean's ear and said groggily, but slightly more clearly, "Don't wake him. Please. Don't wake him."

Dean realized two things at once. One, the man in the ridiculous flannel pajamas was sporting his own morning erection and, two, that man was not Castiel.

"Jimmy?!"

Jimmy murmured a vague affirmative into Dean's ear and then nuzzled his neck, repeating, "Shhhh."

Well this was what you call a conundrum, Dean thought. He was still thirsty and uncomfortable and wanted to get up, but how could he rob Jimmy of both sleep and, apparently, a few moments of control over his own body.

"That's really you, Jimmy?" Dean asked in a soft whisper.

Jimmy's only answer was to purr into his ear, "You smell good today."

"Thanks?" Dean said. 

Jimmy inhaled deeply and said, "Really, today you smell _nice_."

"Do I normally smell bad?" Dean laughed.

"Yes."

Dean stopped laughing. "I do?"

"Mm-hmm."

"I usually smell bad?" You would think that if he had bad B.O. someone would have mentioned it before. Sam certainly would have mentioned it, because, okay, Sam _did_ mention it, but on those occasions Sam usually stunk pretty bad too. Showers were not something you could count on having regular access to when you took up the mantle of demon hunter.

For a moment, Jimmy seemed to have fallen back to sleep, but then he murmured, "Gasoline and asphalt and sulfur and stale beer and, on the really bad days, blood and rotting flesh."

"Okay, yeah," Dean admitted. "Occupational hazard. But otherwise?"

"Now," Jimmy said, "you smell like sweat."

"Most people count sweat on the list of bad smells," Dean said, still feeling vaguely offended.

"Uh-uh. Stale sweat is rank. Fresh sweat is musk and sex." 

Dean was confused by that for only about a second and a half and then Jimmy licked his neck and it all sort of clicked.

"Oh."

Jimmy licked him again and shifted his weight so that their erections were pressing against each other and Dean shuddered a little and, despite himself, wriggled a little to take the edge off the worst of the sudden itch. "Um."

Before he could think of anything more eloquent than "um" Jimmy kissed him, slowly and gently--still a little sleepily--but passionately and wetly and that helped his thirst, in a slightly gross way, because his mouth certainly wasn't dry any longer.

Dean said "Whoa" and Jimmy said "Shhhh" and they each repeated their mantras several times before Dean finally took Jimmy's head between his hands and forced him back.

"Good morning, Jimmy," Dean said. It was an awkward start, but he wasn't getting quite enough oxygen to his brain to think of anything better.

"Morning," Jimmy said. His eyes were falling shut again and Dean knew he could have wrestled him off easily, but it just didn't seem fair to handle Jimmy roughly at this point. If anyone deserved a little extra latitude, Jimmy did.

"We can't do this," Dean said to him gently. 

"Please," Jimmy said and again shifted his pelvis to rub their groins together, and again Dean reflexively wriggled just a little in response.

"We can't fool around behind Castiel's back," Dean said. "It's not right."

It was the wrong thing to say. Jimmy flashed him a look of pure venom and softly growled, "I don't care what Castiel wants."

"It's still his body," Dean said and winced when he realized that that was an even worse thing to say. 

" _Whose_ body is this?" Jimmy asked. "Does _he_ ever give a damn when _I_ am tired or hungry or in pain? Or does he just shrug it off as the _inherent weakness_ of the vessel to overcome with his superior willpower?"

"That was a really bad choice of words," Dean admitted.

Jimmy looked like he was about to cry and that was Dean's secret weakness. He hated it when people cried. He relaxed his hold on Jimmy's head and petted back his sweaty hair. Dean was even hornier than when he woke up and Jimmy was there and apparently willing and just the idea of stopping now made his brain cramp a little. If Jimmy wanted to get off, he owed him that much and more really, and--okay, screw the rationalizations--this felt pretty good. So, when Jimmy didn't take the initiative, Dean kissed him. "It's okay. You want this? It's okay. Just don't cry. Please."

And Jimmy kissed him fiercely then, desperately and awkwardly, like a starving man who suddenly found himself at an endless banquet. He ground their hips together in a way that was more painful than hot, but Dean let him. And then the thrusting stilled and the kisses became strangely hesitant and when the dark-haired man pulled back to look at Dean's face, Dean didn't even have to ask to know who he'd been kissing for the last three or four seconds.

"Good morning, Cas."

"Good morning, Dean," Castiel said, as cool and calm as if he'd walked up to him in the supermarket. Dean could still feel the stiffness behind the flannel pajamas, but nothing in Castiel's face acknowledged the erection.

"So, the funniest thing," Dean said, "Jimmy was just--"

"I know."

"Of course you do."

"For the record, I don't have any objections if you wanted to continue," Castiel said.

"Continue?" Dean said with a nervous laugh. "That, that, that would just be weird. Sorry. Um. I really have to, um."

Dean wriggled out from under Castiel and hotfooted it to the master bath where he locked the door. He gulped water straight out of the tap and splashed his face. He still had to pee, but he was hornier than ever so this was going to take some time. Decision. Back slowly away from the dizzying cliff face or do a swan dive off the edge and get it over with? Dean opted for swan dive. He got in the shower and lathered up and did his best to conjure up images of the magical princess with the big breasts, but the cavalry officer's face grew uncomfortably familiar in his imagination.

When he was done and clean with an empty bladder and a more relaxed state of being, he wrapped himself in the bathrobe hanging on the back of the door. He hadn't paid that much attention during the unpacking and most of "their" belongings were random items Sam had picked up from a thrift store or yard sale so he still didn't recognize much of it. He wasn't sure if the bathrobe was thus his or Castiel's or Mark Jefferson's, but the alternative was just a towel and he was not ready to face Castiel in just a towel.

He needn't have worried though. When he came back into the bedroom, Castiel was gone, the bed was made, and the stupid flannel pajamas were folded neatly on Castiel's side of the bed. Dean got dressed and ventured out to the kitchen where he already smelled coffee brewing.

Castiel was dressed in khakis and a bright yellow polo shirt. He looked ridiculously sunny. There was no point asking Sam what he'd been thinking when he packed that outfit. Castiel really did look like he should have a golf club in his hands.

Castiel had his back to him and was just standing there staring at the coffee pot as it slowly dribbled out coffee. That was Castiel's way. Stare at something until it gave you what you wanted. 

"How do you want your eggs?" Dean asked, "Sunny-side-up? Poached? Benedict?"

"Why do you even ask? You always make scrambled eggs no matter what I ask for."

"It's sort of a joke," Dean said. 

"I fail to see the humor of it."

"And I can sort of make an omelet," Dean offered. "That's basically scrambled eggs that you don't stir as much. We still have cheese. It's that expensive stuff. Do you want a cheese omelet?"

"Fine," Castiel said. He was still staring at the coffee pot even though it had more than half a pot yet to dribble.

Dean got the ingredients out of the fridge and began preparing breakfast. "So," he said, finally, "Jimmy's gay, huh?"

"I wasn't supposed to mention it," Castiel said. "It's something he's always been ashamed of. I'm confused as to why he would then reveal himself in such a forward way."

"Humans are contradictory," Dean reminded him. "I have to admit that I did not pick up on the gay thing. I mean, he seemed pretty happy with his wife. I would never imagine he had anything going on the side."

"He didn't." Castiel was frowning intently at the coffee pot now. "Jimmy lost his virginity to his wife and he was never unfaithful to her."

"But," Dean said, turning back to the stove to stir the eggs, "still gay?"

"He had urges that upset him. He prayed daily that--" 

Dean slammed the skillet down on the burner. "Oh, no. Do not tell me that that's how you got your angelic little claws into him."

Castiel continued to stare at the coffee pot and said nothing.

"Okay, tell me--tell _Jimmy_ \--exactly how much you and the other spiritual beings give a rip about the sex lives of humans. Go on. Say it."

Dean looked over his shoulder and saw Castiel's jaw clench briefly before he said, grudgingly. "Other than a few fetishistic demons, spiritual beings are rarely concerned with physical sexuality. There are a few rituals involving virgins or the blood of virgins, but even those are primarily instances where demigods feed off the _belief_ in the rituals and thus it's the _human_ belief in the importance of sex that is the key."

"So, to summarize, Jimmy prayed for God to release him from evil sexual urges and instead of saying, 'It's okay, Jimmy. God doesn't actually care how you get off,' and moving on to the next willing victim, you used that as your opportunity to take him as a human sacrifice."

"Dean, you know why I had to--"

"You could have picked someone else."

"Then we'd just be having this argument about someone else."

"It's not as bad if he's an actual religious fanatic," Dean said, though he knew he was starting to grasp at straws. "A monk or something. I don't know."

" _Sincere_ religious fanatics are a lot rarer than you seem to think. Jimmy was truly my best choice at that time."

"It still doesn't make it--" 

The doorbell rang and interrupted their argument. Dean scraped the eggs out of the pan and onto two plates, dumped the skillet into the sink where it sizzled, and walked toward the door.

"These are scrambled," Castiel pointed out.

"With cheese," Dean said. "It's the same thing as an omelet."

"No. It's not."

Dean opened the door.

***** Congratulations! *****

"Good morning!" the Jones women chorused. Joanna, Debbie, and Mary-Jane were all beaming.

"We have fabulous news!" Debbie said.

Joanna nodded. "Answer to a prayer," she added.

"Are you ready for a big surprise?" Mary-Jane asked.

"Is Cas here?" Joanna asked. "You should both find out at the same time."

Dean glanced over his shoulder and saw that Castiel was joining them. "Yeah, he's here. What's up?"

"Ms. Appleton, may I introduce you to Dean and Castiel Winchester. The Winchesters are known professionally as the Emersons, very progressive artists in each of their fields. Dean, Cas, this is Ms. Appleton from the county."

Ms. Appleton was pushing a double-wide baby stroller and without further ado pushed her way right into the living room. She said, "Pleased to meet you," as she passed, but didn't even make eye contact. The stroller contained two children, the youngest of which was screaming bloody murder. It was like someone scraping their fingernails on a chalkboard only they were doing it on your bones. None of the women seemed to be fazed.

"Aren't they adorable?" Debbie asked.

Dean glanced at Mary-Jane and could only bring himself to say, "And loud."

Mary-Jane noticed the books that he'd left on the coffee table and pointed them out to Debbie with a knowing smirk.

"Heroin withdrawal is a bitch," Ms. Appleton said looking around the living room. "Do I smell coffee?"

"Heroin what?!" Dean asked.

"I just made a pot in the kitchen," Castiel said, staring at the little alien invaders in the stroller. "Help yourself."

"I'm sorry," Dean said. "Did she say heroin withdrawal?"

"Don't worry," Ms. Appleton said. "He's already passed the worst of it. Should settle down before much--oh, my Lord!"

Ms. Appleton stepped back out of the kitchen, pointing behind her. "Have you seen this kitchen?" she asked the Joneses. "I swear you could actually eat off this floor." She disappeared back into the kitchen and they could hear cupboards banging.

"What's going on here?" Dean asked.

"We ran your request by the doctors at the clinic," Joanna said. "They were originally a trifle hesitant. It's not really safe to have high-risk children out here away from a full hospital. However, Ms. Appleton was kind enough to search her rosters of children and found two who meet your criteria yet are medically stable. They were both given a full physical at the clinic and the entire board signed their approval."

"My criteria?" Dean asked.

"These braces--" Castiel asked. 

"Dr. Lopez thinks that with physical therapy she might only have a limp by the time she grows up," Joanna said. "Isn't that wonderful?"

Castiel glared at Dean. "One of the cute knobbly ones from the posters?"

It finally clicked in Dean's brain. "Oh, God."

"Leah was actually _on_ a poster!" Ms. Appleton called from the kitchen. "Last spring they were doing one of those fund raising marches for whatever it is she's got and they put Leah on the poster because she's so cute."

" _Whatever it is she's got?_ " Dean repeated.

"Oh, it's in the file somewhere," Ms. Appleton said. She walked out of the kitchen carrying Castiel's bunny mug steaming with coffee. "I have too many kids to keep track of. Have I mentioned what a lovely home you have? Is this your bunny? They told me you drew bunnies."

"It's my bunny," Castiel said.

"Oh, that makes you the designer. Are those your dresses?" She flitted across the living room to the coat rack where Dean had hung up his creations. "These are just--oh, my. Mary-Jane, your mother-in-law-to-be was telling me that you might have him design your wedding dress?"

Mary-Jane smiled stiffly. "Oh. No. I, uh, Dean is a little avant garde for my, that is, I'm going with something a little more _traditional_. A local seamstress, Anne VanderWeyden, is going to be doing the actual, um. No offense?" She flashed Dean another panicked smile.

"Trust me," Dean said. "None taken."

"I don't understand fashion any more than I understand art, frankly. I just look for something that's comfortable," Ms. Appleton continued, "but my daughter, she'd strap squirrels to her head if Katy Perry did it. Can I take a picture with you and your dresses? She'll be so excited that I met a fancy designer." Without further ado she flipped out her cellphone and leaned into Dean while holding out one of the dresses. It was in Dean's opinion the ugliest of the three. Dean smiled out of reflex as the camera snapped.

"I think there has been a slight miscommunication," Dean said.

Mary-Jane was standing right next to him now and she possibly wasn't doing it on purpose, but Dean always had the idea that she was trying to catch him in a lie. "I said--when I said--about the kids--we didn't mean _now_. We're not ready for parenthood. We are really, really not ready for parenthood." 

He had hoped his sincerity would sway them. Mary-Jane had to back him up on this. But Ms. Appleton was unfazed. "No one is ready for parenthood, sweetie. No one." She wandered down the hall uninvited. "Oh, your den here will make a perfect nursery," she called back from out of sight.

"Don't you have to do background checks before you just hand over foster kids?" Dean asked desperately.

"And," Debbie added, excited, "they are both available for permanent adoption. We've got a lawyer drawing up the paperwork now."

"What?" Dean asked. Castiel had turned into a statue and was clearly going to be of no use at all.

Ms. Appleton wandered back out to the living room. "This is such a lovely community. I can't believe I didn't even know it was here. I always assumed there was just more farmland beyond those scrubby bushes. You don't have more couples looking for hard-to-place children, do you? I have lots of hard-to-place children. You can't imagine."

"No, seriously," Dean protested. "The background check is going to be a problem."

"Oh, pshah," Ms. Appleton said dismissively. "Yes, we have to do those and to expedite the process, I will make sure your application goes at the very bottom of the list." She beamed at him innocently.

"See, there's a reason we don't always use the Winchester name publicly. You know, my brother and I were once falsely accused of robbing a bank. Falsely, mind you," he emphasized for Mary-Jane, "but there just might be one or two teensy little outstanding warrants that never got cleared up. So, while I really appreciate--" 

"Mr. Winchester, if I check that computer over there, am I going to find any child pornography?"

"No! What? No!"

"Would you kill, hit, or otherwise harm these children?"

"No, of course not, but--" 

"Mr. Winchester, do you smell that?" Ms. Appleton asked, taking a deep breath.

"What?"

"That," she said, taking a second deep breath and slowly releasing it, "is the sweet, sweet smell of a total lack of methamphetamines."

"Er--" 

She took a third exaggerated lungful of air. "I could get used to that smell, Mr. Winchester."

"I--"

"Congratulations," she said. "You're a father."

Ms. Appleton swept out the door just as abruptly as she'd entered. Mary-Jane followed her and as they set off down the walk, he could hear Ms. Appleton asking, "So, these Harrisons you were telling me about, are they sure they only want a healthy newborn? I'm fresh out of those. I do have an adorable five year old. Likes to set things on fire, but otherwise...."

Debbie and Joanna remained briefly to bring in stacks of diapers and wipes and formula and baby blankets and between the two of them they even wrestled the pieces of a disassembled crib, child's bed, and high chair into the living room. Dean and Castiel were still so shell-shocked that neither even offered to help.

"Well, we will just leave you all to get to know each other," Joanna said. "If you need help moving furniture around in the nursery, just let me know and I'll send Steve over."

Debbie lingered behind a moment after Joanna left. She whispered something to him that Dean couldn't hear over the screaming baby.

"What?"

"Have you gotten to the second book yet?" she asked pointing to the Delilah Devereaux novels.

He shook his head. "About halfway through book one."

"I'd be really interested to hear your feedback on book two," she said. 

"Feedback?" he asked, and then he made the connection. " _You_ are Delilah Devereaux." 

"Shhh," she said with a conspiratorial wink. "Robert doesn't know."

She slipped out the door and shut it behind her.

"There is a gay sex scene in book two," Dean said. "I know there is."

Castiel didn't respond, possibly didn't even hear him. The child kept screaming. Castiel narrowed his eyes at Dean.

"Do not blame me for that one. I did not ask for a heroin baby. I specifically said crack baby. That one is not my fault."

The cute knobbly girl from the poster looked up at him and announced that she had to pee-pee.

"Okay, that one is my fault."

**end chapter seven**


	8. Chapter 8

***** Responsibility *****

Dean seemed to recall an ad campaign a few years ago. The tag line was "A dog isn't just for Christmas" or something like that. It was trying to remind people that giving living creatures as gifts was unwise and sometimes even cruel. The Joneses and Ms. Appleton had apparently not seen that ad campaign. 

The baby cried nonstop for days. Perhaps not entirely nonstop. There were fleeting moments where he cried himself into exhaustion and slipped off to a fitful sleep, but as soon as anyone else started to drift off to sleep he was bawling at full power again. The girl was as disturbed by this as anyone and cried, silently but tearfully, most of the time as well. This was really the worst. The boy's cries were cries of rage at an unfair world that had taken away the good drugs just when he felt he could have used them most. The girl's tears were pure heartbreaking sadness. 

She was older than she looked--in years she was three, based on size he wouldn't have believed she was much more than two--and she seemed smarter than her age. It was perhaps that old Indiana Jones line about age. It's not the years; it's the mileage. At three, she could already remember more than one foster home and when she asked him if what Ms. Appleton said was true, that she was finally going to be adopted, Dean didn't have the heart to lie to her. "No, honey, this is only going to be a little while, but I'll do what I can to find you some decent folks before we go." And she'd nodded like a tiny little grown up and hadn't even cried about that. 

Even Castiel stopped pretending he didn't need sleep and could be found unconscious on his side of the bed whenever the lull in screams lasted long enough to catch a few minutes of slumber. Although, Dean noted, Castiel's "side" of the bed was now a single body-width along the outermost edge. It was a wonder he didn't fall off and there had been a mysterious thunk the other night that gave Dean reason to believe he actually had at least once. 

The children weren't related and from what the girl said hadn't even met prior to being plunked into a car bound for Thorncraft. Her name was Leah. His papers identified him simply as Baby Boy. Debbie had tried to tell him that it was so lovely that they got to pick out a name for the baby themselves, but it made Dean uneasy. They weren't keeping it. Naming it seemed wrong somehow. At some point--on which day he didn't quite remember, but definitely in the wee hours of the morning when none of them knew when they'd last slept--Dean realized he was calling the boy Luke because with enough sleep deprivation Luke and Leah was just funny. Pretty soon he was calling her Leia and if she noticed the shift in pronunciation she didn't seem to mind.

It was the boy that was getting under everyone's skin. If only he'd stop crying, she'd stop crying, and everyone would be much happier. Sam had only called in once more and the baby had been screaming so loudly that they could barely hear each other.

"You realize that if you name the kids Luke and Leia, that makes one of you Darth Vadar, right?!" Sam shouted over the noise.

"In the current circumstances, I see us as more Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru!" Dean shouted back. "And, contract be damned, we are not letting these kids anywhere near that school!"

"Agreed!" Castiel shouted.

"I didn't catch that at all! Sorry!" Sam shouted. "Look, I have to go! Email me or something!"

Dean typed up a very detailed wrap-up of recent events and emailed it to him, but Sam had yet to reply.

It was not, Dean took some pride in noting, a two-man remake of _Three Men and a Baby_. When he was just a kid himself, Dean had changed Sammy's diapers with and without adult supervision and still knew the basics of keeping a child alive. Castiel was awkward around both children. He was as emotionally nurturing as a brick wall, but when it was _important_ \--when a child needed fed or changed or that horrible moment when Leah's crutch got tangled in the bathroom rug and she'd tumbled down hard--Castiel's eyes would sort of glaze over and his hands would do what needed done. Dean figured that Castiel had finally worked out there were times when it was best to just let go and let Jimmy deal with it. 

Dean thought nothing could be worse than the baby's constant screaming. He was wrong. 

***** Jedi Knight *****

They'd set the baby up in the living room and Leah in the nursery where they could turn on soft music and close the door and protect her from the worst of the noise. Listening to the crying and walking away was like being scourged with physical guilt, but there was nothing that they could do to make it stop.

Castiel took his position, stiffly and demurely, alongside the farthest edge of the bed. There had been no repeats of Dean being used as a pillow, but Dean tried to stay on his half of the bed anyway, leaving a substantial safe zone between them. Dean folded his pillow around his head, covering both ears, but barely muffling the sound and his last thought before exhaustion quickly claimed him was that he couldn't possibly get any sleep.

Dean woke up in a panic, with no idea why but absolutely certain that something was very wrong. Castiel was gone, which did nothing to reassure him. He was already on his feet before he was really quite awake. He checked the house for something amiss, not sure what he was looking for, and because it was a small house, it was only a few seconds before he found them. It was only then that he realized the baby wasn't crying anymore.

Jimmy stood in the living room rocking the baby. And he knew it wasn't Castiel, because Jimmy was crying.

"Oh, God, what's wrong? Is he okay?"

Jimmy held the baby out to him. It was probably the sleep deprivation doing it to him, but Dean was so utterly stressed and strung out that he was sure, downright positive, that Jimmy was going to hand him a tiny little corpse. He recoiled, but forced himself to step closer. The baby was alive and wriggling and apparently healthy and blessedly quiet. The worst was finally over.

"Hey, there, little guy," Dean whispered. The little boy was smiling and even trying to grab playfully at his own toes. Dean looked back up at Jimmy's face and there were still tears overflowing his eyes. "What? What's wrong?"

"You are a cute little baby," Jimmy told the child in his arms. He continued to smile and tug at his footies. 

"You are a Jedi Knight," Jimmy told the child. The boy made a face and gurgled in protest at the lie.

"Oh, God," Dean whispered.

"Apparently," Jimmy said, "it has nothing to do with the school."

***** Quiet Morning *****

In the morning, both children were perfect angels. Luke allowed himself to be bathed and changed without protest and took a bottle enthusiastically. Leah ate breakfast without spilling anything and brushed her own teeth without being reminded. She politely asked for assistance getting dressed and it was clear she would have done it all on her own if the leg braces hadn't gotten in her way. And then she quietly sat on the edge of her daybed--holding, but not exactly playing with, her doll--and did nothing. 

Dean grabbed the magnetic memo pad off the fridge and wrote on it, "Not normal," and showed it to Castiel who nodded. They had both agreed without having to say it that it wasn't a good idea to break their cover in front of the kids. Dean was especially glad that he hadn't lied to Leah a few days ago when he'd had the chance, because it would have been rather horrible for her to realize such a thing was a lie now.

"You watch the kids," Dean wrote. "I have to go out."

Castiel frowned at him, but didn't protest as Dean walked out the door.

***** Road trip *****

Frank Washington had called and asked if Dean was still offering his assistance with the home renovations. Their investigation had been stalled by the arrival of the kids and Dean was eager to get going again. He was also eager to just get out of the house. As he walked over, he wrote Sam a text message: "Castiel weaker. Jimmy stronger. Kids gone Stepford. Answer your damn phone. Need action plan. Now."

He was just about to hit the send button when a van squealed past horn honking. "Watch where you're going, dick head!" the driver screamed out the window at him.

"Slow down, jackass!" Dean screamed back. For a fleeting moment, the world seemed almost normal again and Dean was chagrined to admit he didn't like it. It had sort of been his fault for not really paying attention to where he was walking, but the driver had been zipping through the streets of Thorncraft _way_ too fast. Obviously not a local. Dean shook his head when he realized that he'd just caught himself thinking of Thorncraft as a magical safe zone.

Frank Washington looked like a retired football player. He was a big man, taller and beefier than even most of the demon hunters Dean had known. When you looked at him, you thought construction worker or bodyguard or maybe even cop and it wasn't too hard to imagine landscaper. Florist, on the other hand, was just not something that easily came to mind, even if you squinted and focused really hard.

He was trimming the tree in his front yard when Dean walked up. Frank beamed at him when he saw him coming. "Good morning! I understand congratulations are in order."

"I suppose you can tell by the dark circles under my eyes," Dean said.

Frank laughed. "Hoo boy, I'd nearly forgotten what that was like. Marcus never fussed, but Haylee, oh my, I didn't think that child was ever going to sleep. But they've settled in now all right?"

"Yeah," Dean said, "kinda spooky how suddenly that happened. Almost like magic." He watched Frank carefully as he put away the garden shears, but Frank's smile never wavered.

"I looked over that list you left with Haylee," Frank said. "I've got most of it in the garage, but I could use a hand on a Home Depot run if you wouldn't mind. I think you're right that it'll be easier to replace that panel of drywall outright rather than patch it."

"Fine by me. If you don't mind, maybe we could swing by a department store. I need to pick up a couple of car seats for the kids. The lady from the county didn't really leave us much of anything. The Joneses dropped off a butt-load of baby crap--" Dean winced at the visual. He'd already seen too many butt-loads of baby crap. "Baby _stuff_ , a bunch of baby _stuff_ , but no car seats."

Frank looked worried suddenly. "Oh, no need for a car seat here. You can push a stroller from one end of Thorncraft to the other in no time at all."

"Yeah, but if we want to take the kids somewhere--" 

"You can't do that," Frank said abruptly.

"Why not?"

"The kids won't want to go, I mean. Why would you want to take the kids anywhere else anyway? This place is perfect for children."

"Yes, but--"

Dean was interrupted by a white delivery van that squealed up to the curb. 

"Ah," Frank said, "I was beginning to wonder where you'd got to. Stu said he let you in over a quarter of an hour ago."

"This place is a frickin' maze!" the driver complained as he got out. When he noticed Dean he added, "Full of people who walk in traffic without looking where they're going."

"And even though you were speeding through a residential zone, I still _walked_ here faster than you," Dean said smugly.

"This place is a frickin' maze," the driver repeated. "It's not on my GPS!"

"I gave the man on the phone directions," Frank said mildly.

"I don't need directions," the man said. "That's why I paid big bucks for the GPS."

A second, slightly younger man got out of the van and shrugged apologetically. "But we're here now," he said.

The driver and Dean sort of grunted at each other and then the four of them unloaded the hot tub. Fortunately, the paved drive led most of the way to the backyard. There was only a small patch of grass between the drive and the brick patio where they couldn't use the dolly at all, but with four of them it wasn't too bad. 

From there it was a simple roll through the French doors to the master bedroom. And from the master bedroom, it was an easy trundle through the gaping hole where the bathroom door used to be. 

"Wow, you've, uh, made _progress_ since Haylee showed me this the other day." Dean was glad there were no children present, because progress was not a remotely honest word.

"Yeah, I, uh, measured the doorway and it wasn't going to work, so--" Frank smiled at him.

"We're going to need a bit more--" 

"I've already added it to the list," Frank said cheerfully. "You fellas going to be all right for an hour or two? We have to make a supply run in town."

The driver, whose name turned out to be Larry, just grunted. Nick, the other guy, nodded. "Yeah, no sweat. We should be about done by then."

The nearest Home Depot was an hour's drive away and Dean should have been taking that time to question Frank about what was actually going on in Thorncraft. But the steady droning of Frank's van--a delivery van not unlike the contractors', but with "Frank's Flowers" in a fancy script on the side and dotted with daisies--played on his sleep deprivation and it was all Dean could do to keep his eyes open. The landscape blurred past, so dull compared to Thorncraft. It blurred faster after Frank got on the highway.

A billboard caught Dean's eye. A kid's face. A teddy bear. The word "STOP" in large red letters. It was out of sight before his conscious mind could latch onto the rest of the words, but he got the gist of it. It was one of those public service announcements about child abuse. _How much had that cost?_ he wondered. _And what good would it ever do? Would someone who hurt a kid suddenly see the light because of a fricking billboard?_ He pulled out his cellphone and typed another message to Sam. "'Now' means sometime this year."

They were in the middle of the Home Depot when Sam called. Dean left Frank to stare at doorway molding and slipped down another aisle.

"What do you have for me, Sammy?"

"Dean, I'm in a bookstore in Minneapolis," Sam said.

"What are you doing in Minneapolis?"

"It doesn't matter. I've got it under control."

"You've got _what_ under control, Sammy?"

"Dean, the point is, I'm in a bookstore in Minneapolis, Minnesota and guess what I'm looking at."

"Sam, I'm in a Home Depot in Shelbyville, Illinois, and I don't care."

"It's a bunny," Sam said.

"You're in a bookstore looking at a bunny?"

"I'm in a bookstore looking at a book called _It's A Bunny_ by Seth Harrison."

"Seth Harrison?" Dean repeated.

"With illustrations by Cassie Emerson."

"Is this book full of really bad poetry?"

"And even worse bunny drawings, yes."

"How is this possible?" 

"You tell me," Sam said. "It says Thorncraft Publishing which takes care of the general question of 'How did they get anyone to publish this crap?' but the logistics of getting this on store shelves... They had to start the presses almost as soon as you arrived there. Did Castiel say anything about agreeing to illustrate a book?"

"No. And he wouldn't just," Dean said and then reconsidered mid-sentence. "Of course he would. Harrison's been trying to get him to knock up his wife. Cas probably figured agreeing to illustrate a book was a no brainer compared to that."

"I'm sorry," Sam said. "I don't think I heard you right."

"You heard right. Forget it. There aren't any pictures or About the Authors blurbs on this book, are there?"

"No, we're fine there. And at least _Cassie_ Emerson is keeping his name off the front page." 

"Meaning?" Dean asked.

"Have you seen this week's _National Enquirer_?"

"Sammy, I know you have your heart set on investigating that psychic cat, but we're kinda busy right now."

"You're confusing _National Enquirer_ with _Weekly World News_ again. I'm talking about the celebrity tabloid. Remember that actress who wheedled a free dress out of you?"

"Yeah."

"Guess who got an honorable mention for Worst Dressed this week?"

"That is awesome," Dean laughed.

"Dean, your cover story is _the_ cover story on a national tabloid. That's not what is generally meant by covert. For a wannabe celebrity, there may be no such thing as bad publicity, but for an undercover assignment, it's pretty safe to say that there's no such thing as good publicity."

"The question is, where is this coming from? It was not in the contract we signed and, trust me, we have not been making any wishes on bloody thorns."

"I think the bit about pricking your finger and making a wish was more metaphorical, symbolic. Sacrifice resulting in answered prayers. You don't have to literally bleed. The children are the sacrifice."

"But we haven't been praying. I can guarantee you that I have not been praying. Not for kids, not for front pages, not for bunny books, nothing. And Castiel has been nagging at me since we got here to give this up and move on. If he's praying for anything it's finding God and defeating Lucifer. _No one_ has been pray--"

"Dean?"

Dean had caught sight of Frank again and he had a thought. "I just remembered something. When the good Reverend JoJo introduced us, she asked the congregation to pray for us, for our careers, our family, etc. I didn't think about it. It just sounded, blah, blah, welcome to the neighborhood, God loves you, group hug, et cetera. But, what if some of them took her literally? Or she took herself literally? Would that be enough?" 

"Possibly. I still can't make out what we're dealing with here. The weird thing is that the binding spells Castiel found and what he himself describes as a dampening field, those would inhibit this thing's power not enable it."

"I assumed that whatever this demon is, it's what's draining Cas."

"Those binding spells are serious stuff. Ancient magic. Ancient _white_ magic."

"As in, put there by the good guys?"

"Something is trapped there, Dean," Sam said. "Someone else already found it and trapped it, but couldn't destroy it."

"Okay, but if it's trapped inside the circle, inside the thorn bush, in the center of Thorncraft, how can its powers extend to the whole community? How can its powers extend _beyond_ the community? The Jeffersons were killed out by the _interstate_."

"My theory," Sam said, "is that it's getting stronger."

"Every time it adds a kid, it grows?"

"Maybe. I don't know. All I do know is this thing is incredibly powerful even with the binding spells in place. You mess this up and release it full force, there is no telling what you'll have on your hands."

"Ah, man. This is a demigod, isn't it?" Dean asked. "Demigods are such a pain in my ass."

"Until we can figure out _which_ demigod," Sam said, "I have no idea how to defeat it. So, just, y'know, hang tight and don't do anything rash or stupid or, y'know, _you_."

"Thanks for nothing, Sammy."

Dean hung up the phone and caught up with Frank. He helped him pick out the last of the supplies and load the van. Frank was in his usual good spirits until Dean reminded him to swing by a store where Dean could get car seats and then Frank began to fidget. Frank ended up insisting that they'd taken too long getting supplies and that they really needed to hurry back before the workmen made a mess of the installation.

In Dean's opinion, the workmen couldn't possibly make more of a mess of the renovations than Frank had already done, but he graciously avoided pointing this out.

He liked Frank for the most part. He wanted to believe that Frank hadn't known what he was doing to his kids when he moved here. Certainly, the Mad Hatters hadn't spelled out anything about child sacrifice when he and Cas had joined up. But Frank did know something. He wouldn't be this nervous if he didn't. So on the ride back, Dean needled him a little.

"You know, Leia was telling me that she's never been to Disney World or even seen the ocean. That just does not seem right, y'know? So I got to thinking, next summer, we've got to take the kids down to Florida on vacation. Special road trip for the kids."

"I...I don't think that would be a good idea," Frank said.

"Aw, c'mon. Nobody's childhood is complete without a good road trip to remember. We could stop at one of those gator farms."

"Road trips always sound like fun when you're planning them out on the map, but they always end up a lot of traffic and construction delays and--" 

"Do you know that they put on a mermaid show down there? No kidding. Girls in bikinis holding their breath and putting on a show in this big underwater auditorium."

"Oh, I don't think--" 

"Totally family-friendly, mind you," Dean added. "And, y'know, I got to thinking, I bet your kids would love that, too. We could caravan down. Pitch our tents among that Spanish moss and the palmetto bushes. Hit a few beaches on the way to Orlando. What do you say?"

Frank was starting to break out in a sweat. "I'm allergic to mosquitoes."

"What's a few bug bites in the cause of a family road trip."

"I'm deathly afraid of armadillos," Frank blurted out.

"Really?"

Frank nodded emphatically. "They carry leprosy, you know. And, and, they look like, like, giant pill bugs with ears. They're just creepy."

"Seriously?" Dean bit his lip to avoid laughing. "Giant pill bugs with ears, huh? I always liked to play with those bugs myself when I was a kid. We called 'em 'roly-polies'."

"But giant ones with ears? That carry leprosy?"

"Well," Dean admitted, "when you put it like that, I suppose--"

"Although," Frank said, "I would appreciate if you didn't _mention_ my armadillo phobia in front of the children. I wouldn't want them to think their old dad's a sissy or anything."

Dean was enjoying himself now. "You aren't implying that there's anything wrong with being a sissy now, are you?"

"Dean, I'm driving a van with daisies on it."

"Point taken. I apologize. I hope I didn't sound oversensitive there."

"No worries. I'm an overweight black man who changed careers midlife to become a florist. I understand a thing or two about prejudice and stereotypes."

"I hear you."

"I'd still appreciate it if you didn't mention the armadillo thing in front of the kids."

_Oh, I hear you all right._

***** True Horror *****

The worst part of being a hunter was that there was no worst part because it was all the worst part. Demigods were the worst because they were unpredictable and capricious. Ghosts were the worst because of the bone-chilling fear that swallowed you and switched off your fore-brain. Witches were the worst because they were humans who had sold their souls in exchange for power and vengeance. Vampires were the worst because they were zombies, but fast, smart, and pretentious. Demons were the worst because they were pure evil. Angels were the worst because they were supposed to be above that shit, but weren't.

And then there were the horrors that were completely beyond the purview of the hunter and maybe those were the worst because being a hunter meant it was your job to fight evil in whatever form it took yet sometimes the form it took was more capricious than a demigod, more intangible than a ghost. Planes crashed and people got struck by lightning. Some people drank themselves to death and others got sick and died despite decades of health food and exercise. Strangers shot each other over an empty wallet or an insult or even a misunderstanding. Lovers killed each other for no damn good reason at all. Christmas tree lights short-circuited and houses burned down. And there was just not a damn thing a hunter could do about any of that.

Most of the time, it didn't matter. Most of the time, those were just headlines and statistics. Most of the time, you didn't have to be there to watch the pink foamy breath of a punctured lung and feel the impotent rage of having no monster to fight because it was just a stupid fucking accident.

Sometimes, it sucked.

They made good time and got back to Frank's house as Larry and Nick were just putting away their tools.

"About time," Larry grumbled. "I would have had to charge you another hour, if we'd had to wait around on you much longer."

"Perfect timing," Nick said as if Larry hadn't spoken. "We only just finished a minute ago. We're just cleaning up now."

Dean double checked their work discreetly while Frank wrote them a check. 

"You know if you'd just called us out to do the prep work ourselves, you wouldn't have this mess to deal with," Larry said.

Dean had been thinking the same thing himself, but Larry's I-told-you-so attitude got on his nerves regardless.

Frank gave them directions to get back on the highway, but Larry waved him off. "I can get back from here. I don't need directions."

The delivery van took off with a squeal. Frank and Dean sighed in unison.

"Can't get out that way," Frank said. 

Dean shook his head. "Nope." 

All roads in Thorncraft led inward to the center, either to Vine Circle itself or to another road that would lead to Vine. Other than the four gate roads--which they were not currently on--all roads in Thorncraft led outward to end in cul-de-sacs or to other roads that led to cul-de-sacs. Larry was aimed "outward" which guaranteed that "out" was the one place he wasn't going to get.

Frank dialed his cell phone. "Hey, Stu, it's Frank. Those workmen are going to need someone to let them out, but, uh, take your time, they're taking the scenic route."

The van disappeared down Willow. Dean couldn't recall what streets Willow branched into--Olive and Orange as it happened--but he knew they weren't getting out that way. Frank and Dean stood on the curb and waited. Eventually, the van reappeared, but before they could wave it down, it turned away--still stubbornly aimed "out"--and zipped down Elm to the next fork and turned down Birch where Larry and Nick would have no better luck.

Frank and Dean waited.

If a delivery van could tuck its tail between its legs and slink, this one did. It returned slowly, pulled even with them, idled, and the passenger window lowered. Nick turned bright eyes to them and Dean was sure he was fighting back laughter. 

"Would you mind running those directions by us again?" Nick asked.

"Follow this road that-a-way to Vine Circle. Take Vine either way around. Clockwise is a touch shorter, but counter-clockwise will work almost as well. Stay on Vine Circle to Mulberry Street. Take Mulberry Street all the way out to the gate. Stu will be waiting for you to let you out."

Nick repeated and pointed. "Ahead to Vine. Around to Mulberry. Out to gate."

"Yup."

"Got it. Thanks."

Frank and Dean were still laughing at them when the bicycle zipped out from Magnolia into the van's path. The kid had the stop sign, but probably thought he didn't need to pay attention to it since he was taking the soft curve onto Elm. Larry hadn't even been speeding that time, but the boy looked like he'd been thrown ten or fifteen feet.

"Call an ambulance!" Dean screamed over his shoulder as he sprinted down the street. It was bad and he knew it was bad before he even got close enough to see. Dean knew the drill. Clear the airways. Stop the bleeding. The boy had bad road rash, but most of the bleeding appeared to be internal and there wasn't a damn thing Dean could do about that.

Dean looked up and saw he was encircled now. Larry was crying, actually crying. Nick looked shocked. The vaguely familiar faces of other neighbors hovered on the periphery, but no one was doing anything.

"Ambulance?!" Dean repeated.

Allison Robbins, the neighbor planting flowers a lifetime ago, shook her head at him. "The nearest hospital must be twenty miles from here."

It took Dean a moment to process that. Everything about Thorncraft said _town_ , not rural, so that he nearly forgot that they were miles out into farmland. Frank's daisy-covered van pulled up then. 

"Get in!" Frank yelled. "The medical center is expecting us!"

Dean carefully loaded the boy into the back of the van. "All right, easy! Nice and easy!"

There were no seat belts in the back. Dean scrabbled with some bungee cords thinking he could turn them into some sort of makeshift safety harness, but they were for securing light pallets of flowers. They were useless for this. They hadn't unpacked from their shopping trip and the lack of space actually helped--less room to slide around in. Dean braced himself between the side of the van and the drywall, feeling ridiculously guilty for damaging it, holding the boy as flat and still as possible on the floorboards.

"Easy!" he repeated.

Dean felt as if he could have run to the medical center faster than Frank was driving and he had to fight the urge to scream, "Hurry!" _Slow and easy. Slow and easy. Take it easy! Hurry! Take it easy! Hurry!_

It was cool and dark inside the back of the van. Enough light trickled back from the front windows to see, but not enough to see well and Dean relied mostly on the sound of the boy's breathing to know that they needed to get to the hospital five minutes ago.

The van finally came to a stop and the back doors were opened. Sunlight streamed in and Dean could now see the pink foam on the boy's lips. Dean was surprised to see that Nick and Larry were the ones who opened the van's back doors. They'd followed the whole way in their own van.

And then Maria was there too and Dean relaxed a little. Someone wearing scrubs was going to take over now and it wasn't his responsibility anymore.

"Is Dr. Lopez here yet?" someone else called out.

That sent a chill down Dean's spine. Dr. Lopez did colonoscopies in his spare time when he wasn't writing whodunits, didn't he?

"Tonia!" Frank cried out. "Tonia, it's the Baxter boy."

Tonia Washington pushed her way to the head of the crowd. "Get him inside. What about Dr. Landon? Is Dr. Landon here yet?"

"I'm here!" A man in jeans and a paint-stained sweatshirt ran up to them from the street.

The boy was carried inside and Dr. Landon directed them to the elevator and Dean thought he'd misheard when Landon told Maria, "Delivery room one."

"Delivery room?" he repeated.

"We don't have operating rooms," Tonia Washington explained. "The delivery rooms are the closest thing really."

" _Delivery_ rooms?" Dean repeated again.

"Dr. Landon's an obstetrician," she explained. Over her shoulder, she pleaded again, "Has anyone gotten hold of Dr. Lopez yet?"

"Who's the trauma surgeon?" Dean demanded, knowing the answer already.

She just shook her head as the elevator doors closed.

Dean followed up in the next elevator with Nick and Larry and Frank. "Tell me," he said, "that your wife at least knows her way around an emergency room."

Frank stuttered helplessly, "I don't know. She did her internship in a hospital in Chicago. I suppose she must have done rounds in the ER at one point."

"She's just a GP?"

"Dermatologist."

"Derma--"

"But she's been looking into specializing in pediatrics since we moved here. She's been doing a lot of reading on common childhood--"

"What is wrong with you people?!" Larry screamed. "We could have had this kid halfway to a real hospital by now and you brought him to the freaking local clinic?"

"Christ, Frank," Dean said. "I'm with Larry on this. The boy needs a trauma unit."

"I'm sure it will be all right now we have him here," Frank said vaguely. "Dr. Landon has safely delivered quite a few difficult births."

"Frank, the boy has a punctured lung. Possibly additional internal injuries that can't even be diagnosed without the right equipment. The best obstetrician in the world is still not very helpful at this point."

"And Tonia's been training in pediatrics," Frank said almost cheerfully. "She's been doing a lot of reading on the differences between treating adults and children."

"How do you know he has a punctured lung?" Nick asked.

"Did you see the pink foam around his mouth? That's blood in the lungs. If it's not punctured, it's still very damaged."

"God," Nick said.

Larry forced himself into the delivery room and the others followed. "Do something!" he screamed.

Dean had expected to see frantic activity around the child. Even he was taken aback to see that Dr. Washington and Dr. Landon were only standing at the boy's bedside looking down at him.

"Do something!" Larry screamed again. "Do _anything_!"

"Maria," Dr. Landon said, "get the morphine."

"Fuck this!" Larry said and shoved Dr. Landon out of the way. No one even moved to stop him as he scooped the boy up and carried him out of the room. "Nick, you're driving!"

"You won't be able to get out of the gate," Frank said quietly.

"We'll crash the damned gate!" Larry screamed. 

"I'll get the gate," Dean said. "Come on."

"What is wrong with these people?" Nick asked.

Maria and the doctors followed them down in the elevator silently. They loaded the boy into the back of Larry's van and _this_ vehicle was equipped with heavy-duty straps to keep large cargo from shifting. Dean packed blankets around him and strapped the boy to the floor as securely as any gurney.

Rita Baxter ran up to their makeshift ambulance then. "My baby! My Paulie! What are you doing to my Paulie?"

And to Dean's surprise, it was Dr. Landon who pulled her back. "It's over, Rita. I'm sorry. Paul's not going to make it."

"We're not giving up yet!" Dean screamed.

"We're taking him to the hospital," Larry said. "He'll be fine."

Instead of reassuring her, the words sent her into a full panic. "No! You can't take my baby! You can't take my Paulie! Stop them! Someone stop them!"

Another man suddenly pushed his way into the van and bent over young Paul Baxter, flashing a small light in his eyes, sliding a stethoscope into his own ears.

Dean had a brief moment of hope and then Dr. Lopez shook his head. "He's dead," he whispered.

Rita Baxter's screams rose higher.

Dean looked at the boy who was wheezing pitifully, a hint of more pink foam on his lips. "He's not dead yet," Dean protested.

"Yet," Dr. Lopez repeated meaningfully.

"Get the fuck out of my van," Larry screamed, shoving them out and closing the door.

"Come on!" Nick yelled to Dean. "Get us the hell out of here."

Nick climbed into the driver's seat and Dean climbed into the shotgun position while Larry screamed, "Hurry!" from the back.

"Dean, no!" Frank yelled running after them. "You can't take the boy to the hospital! It's too far!"

"Nearest hospital?" Dean asked Nick.

"What?"

"I'm not a local," Dean said. "I don't know where you're going. Which highway do you want? Which gate?"

"Uh, west is closest."

"Northwest or southwest?"

" _West_ -west!"

"Just take Dogwood, there! This leads to the northwest gate. Will you know how to get to the hospital from there?"

Nick nodded. 

"I already called 911," Larry said from the back. "They're going to have an ambulance meet us halfway."

"Good, good. You're on it. Okay. Let me out at the gate. I'll open it and let you through and then just get the hell out. Don't wait for me."

They did exactly that and Dean was left staring at the gate as their dust settled behind them. It was just a stupid accident. Larry hadn't been speeding. The kid hadn't been any more reckless than a kid that age was likely to be. And maybe, just maybe, they'd get him to the hospital in time, but he couldn't shake the fact that three doctors--specialists or not--had looked at the boy and not deemed it worth the effort of trying.

Dean turned and saw the children. They'd followed him out. Some on foot. Some on skateboards. Some on their own bikes. Not all the children of Thorncraft to be sure, but a large enough representation to give him a nasty feeling. And Mary-Jane Jones was there with them, an adult, but one of _the children_ all the same.

"You shouldn't have done that," Mary-Jane said.

"I was supposed to just let him die?" Dean asked.

"He was going to die either way," she said. "All you changed is how."

**end chapter eight**


	9. Chapter 9

***** Fight *****

Dean walked home by cutting through yards. He had no patience for Thorncraft's quaint branching road system. He had no patience for anything. 

He called Sam, once again got his voicemail instead, and as he walked, he itemized all the things he was still waiting for Sam to get back to him on and added to the list research on Thorncraft's death and injury rates. "Things that on paper may read as accidents or illness," Dean clarified, "but where a major contributing factor was a lack of medical attention."

When he walked in the door, Castiel was standing in the middle of the living room. The children were at his feet. The baby was on a blanket contentedly wrestling with his own toes. The girl was sitting in a miniature chair looking like a doll that had been propped up for display.

"Where have--" Castiel began.

"I don't want to talk about it." Dean pushed his way past Castiel and stalked into the master bathroom, shedding clothes as he went. He didn't even question why he needed another shower. He just needed a shower desperately. He needed to wash away the sweat and the drywall dust and the fear and the memory of blood even if he hadn't gotten any actual blood on himself and also the guilt. Guilt was the hardest to wash away no matter how hard you scrubbed. He came here to stop this thing and now there were two extra kids trapped here that never would have even heard of the place if it hadn't been for him.

What Dean really needed right now was something to punch or, better yet, something to behead. What he wanted from Sam more than anything else right now was a map to the monster's lair so he could slice off its head and its limbs or tentacles or whatever the hell it had. He wanted to chop it up into bloody, slimy chunks.

He didn't stop showering until the hot water heater was drained and even then he let the cold water run over him until he felt numb. He finally turned the water off, dried himself, and dressed. 

His perfect family--hollow fraudulent shells of humanity, all three of them--had barely moved. Castiel still stood watching the children. The baby was still hypnotized by its socks. The girl, well, the girl had a book at least. Something was going on upstairs or so he hoped.

Dean started dinner--or was it still lunchtime? 

Castiel followed him into the kitchen. "I fed them lunch," he said. He sounded a little defensive. Dean finally checked the clock. Three in the afternoon. Okay, too early for dinner. Well, he could get it ready anyway. The Jeffersons had had a rice cooker. He'd never used one before, had only a passing acquaintance with those kitchen appliances that he thought of as upscale. He knew about hotplates and microwaves. The rice cooker and the bread maker and the stand mixer, not so much. The food processor was slightly frightening. But the rice cooker looked simple enough. It had a plug. It had one button. There were no instructions, but he couldn't imagine you needed to consult the manual on something that only had one button.

"Dean--"

"How do you feel about stew? Rice and stew."

"Dean--"

"Make yourself useful. Chop something."

Castiel obediently set out the chopping block and then gathered up the items Dean listed out of the refrigerator. But he didn't stop talking.

"There was a rain of fish east of Saint Paul today," Castiel said.

"Bit early in the season for that," Dean said. He wasn't trying to be funny. He just didn't want to be distracted. One occult crisis at a time.

"There are increasing signs, Dean. We need to acknowledge that the demon here is just one among thousands that were released from hell. In the time to come--"

Yeah, that's exactly where he figured Castiel was going to try and take the conversation. "Sam isn't convinced that this one _is_ a demon," he said. "We just might have a demigod on our hands."

"The point is that there are things building out there with more far-reaching--" 

"The point is we have an entire subdivision of possessed children," Dean said, lowering his voice and pointing at the living room. Could the thing hear them through the children? It seemed likely.

"They're happy," Castiel said. "Everyone here is happy. Maybe that's all that matters."

"Is Jimmy here?" Dean asked.

Castiel ignored him and began chopping the carrots.

"I want to talk to Jimmy. Is he awake? Is he paying attention?"

"Jimmy isn't a separate person anymore, Dean. I've explained that to you."

"And Jimmy has done a pretty good job of explaining otherwise," Dean insisted.

"In my weaker moments, I've allowed the vessel's biological drives to get the upper hand. I believe I have that under control now."

Dean stepped up behind Castiel. He leaned in until his chin was nearly on Castiel's shoulder. "Put the knife down," he whispered into his ear.

"Why?" Castiel asked, but set the knife on the counter without protest.

"I just wanted to make sure we don't have any accidents with sharp objects when I startle you."

"Startle me?" Castiel asked and then added, "Oh!" when Dean licked his neck. 

Dean reached his hand around Castiel's torso and slipped it beneath his shirt. He clutched Castiel against him more firmly than even he had intended and nuzzled again at his neck.

"I want to talk to Jimmy," Dean repeated softly in his ear.

Castiel shook his head, but reached behind him and grabbed at Dean's hips. He was tugging and not pushing away. Even Dean was getting aroused now. If _the vessel_ as Castiel insisted on calling his body was really gay, then this had to be driving him completely bananas. Dean tilted his pelvis, nudged Castiel's legs apart, and did his best to make sure Castiel could feel his erection.

"I want to talk to Jimmy," Dean whispered yet again.

Castiel's head lolled back as Dean sucked wetly at his ear. "I think it's safe to say that you have Jimmy's full attention," he said in a voice that was absurdly calm.

"Good." Dean hugged him tightly with both arms. "Jimmy," he whispered into his ear. "I want you to fight this cold-hearted bastard with everything you've got. You hear me? People have fought off full-powered demons when it mattered through force of will. Maybe not forever, maybe not even for long, but they've done it. You can do it."

Castiel tried to break free, but Dean had him locked solidly in a bear hug. He could still reach the knife if it came to that, but Dean was fairly confident, _mostly_ confident anyway, that he wouldn't try it.

"I want you to kick those seats. I want you to sing the worst songs you can sing. I want you to scream and cry and _fight_. I want you to remind him about cookouts and road trips and banana splits and mac and cheese. You need to remind him every moment of every day that you are a person. And maybe he's right in a way. Maybe the two of you together are just one person now, but you're still a person and _human beings matter_. This war they're always on about means nothing if human beings don't matter. The way I remember this particular fairy tale, Lucifer fell because he thought human beings didn't matter and God kicked his ass out for that. 

"We're mean and crude and stupid," Dean continued. "We're selfish and shallow and we write _terrible_ poetry. But all of it, the good and the bad, that's what being human _is_ and if you don't like it, Cas, whose side of the war are you on then? Huh?"

Dean let him go. Castiel grabbed the knife, but then just stood still with his back to Dean. He stood there a full two minutes without moving or saying a thing and then he started chopping the carrots again. He didn't say another word until the phone call telling them that Paul Baxter was dead.

***** Accidents *****

It was Sam who called. Dean couldn't remember if he'd even mentioned Paul Baxter when he left a message asking about accident statistics, but Sam obviously didn't need to be a rocket scientist to know the news story about a boy's death the same day would be related.

"Cas, go put the kids down for a nap, okay?"

Castiel gathered the children up and carried them out of earshot.

"Did they even get him to the hospital before he died?" Dean asked. He wasn't sure why he asked. It didn't really matter.

"No." Sam sounded confused. "They were both dead when the ambulance got there."

" _Both_ dead. Sam, what are you talking about? Who died besides Paul Baxter?" Castiel returned and shot him a questioning glance as he walked back into the room. Dean still hadn't told him about the Baxter kid. He switched the phone to speaker mode.

"A man named Lawrence Mahler. They were both burned alive, same as the Jeffersons."

"What?!"

"The driver, Nick Campbell, managed to walk away. Severe burns to one arm, but nothing life threatening. News reports are speculating that the workmen must have had something flammable in the back of the truck since that's where it seems to have started, but--" Sam sighed. "So, what happened?"

"Sam, what did the autopsy results say on the Jeffersons?" Dean asked.

"Dean, they were burned down to skeletons. There were no autopsies. Security footage showed they were alive up until the fire so a Cub Scout could give you the official cause of death. No autopsies." 

The security footage didn't just show they were alive up _until_ the fire. There was no audio on the security camera, but as he replayed it in his head Dean could swear he remembered hearing screams as a flaming hand beat at the side window. He could only pray that Paul Baxter was completely unconscious when that moment hit. But Larry. Poor Larry had been a bit of an ass, but he'd tried to do the right thing when it counted and it had killed him in the end.

"What about an arson investigation?" Dean asked. "The fire department had to have a lot of questions about the Jeffersons' deaths. Did they ever come up with any information about the fire? Cause? Ignition source? Anything?"

"You're on to something, Dean. I can hear it in your voice. This will go faster if I know what I'm looking for."

"I think we were wrong at the start. We've assumed since day one that the Mad Hatters killed Mark and Suzanne Jefferson. They broke the pact of the cult or they were going public or something and the housing association went medieval on their butts."

"Suzanne Jefferson _told_ her sister that they were going to kill her," Sam said.

"You said it yourself. It's a figure of speech. She died a few hours later, so Sherry's bound to have remembered the conversation as ominous. But what if it was like this. Suzanne tells her sister that the housing association will be pissed--or will kill her in more dramatic phrasing--if she tells Sherry why she wants to move. Sherry hears Mark in the background telling his wife to hurry it up already--not a panicked we're-gonna-die-if-we-don't-run-now, but an annoyed let's-go-already-the-car-is-packed-and-what's-taking-so-long kind of thing."

"But then they _were_ killed. Horribly."

"You want to know what my guess is? You want to know what you're looking for in that report? Point of ignition was the front passenger seat, just _above_ the seat if they can tell that much."

Sam was silent for a moment and all they could hear through the phone was tapping. Sam sighed. "Bingo. Your theory is that Suzanne Jefferson _was_ the point of ignition."

"Suzanne Jefferson's _fetus_ was the point of ignition."

"She was pregnant?"

"We'll never prove it now, but it makes the most sense. Remember the cookout, I told you that a lot of people were murmuring about the Jeffersons being selfish, benefiting from Thorncraft without giving back. They lived here for two years, enjoyed all the benefits of the magically perfect community, but when they got pregnant they reneged. They thought if they could get out before the baby was born, they wouldn't have to pay the price."

"But it was already too late," Sam said. "This thing didn't need to wait until after the baby was born to connect. It already had its hooks in."

Castiel still looked confused. "It sacrificed the child in order to kill them as punishment for taking the baby out of Thorncraft?"

"I don't think it was deliberate," Dean said. "It might make sense in the case of the Jeffersons, but not Nick and Larry. They were trying to help Paul, not take him away. But they took him too far. That's what the little girl at the school said when we asked about the Jeffersons, remember? They died because they went too far. Sam, where was the van when it caught fire?"

Dean was already pulling up the map. The placed his index finger at the center of the conveniently placed cloud, his pinky at the highway junction where the Jeffersons had died. Using his hand as an inexact compass, he swiveled an arc around until his pinky intersected with the most likely route Nick and Larry had taken to the hospital. They'd have most likely taken the interstate north so right around Copperhead Road or maybe County Road 6. And right on cue, Sam said, "The overpass at Copperhead Road." And Sam was doing the math too. "That's almost exactly the same distance."

"What did you come up with on those accident statistics?" Dean asked. "Higher than average death rate, am I right?"

"You are, in fact, wrong," Sam said. "Lower than average. _Significantly_ lower than average. I've got a handful of deaths over the last two decades that could be partially attributed to not receiving emergency medical care but not nearly as many as you'd expect compared to similar populations. Not a single drowning. No electrocutions. Paul Baxter is only the second car-bike fatality and the last one was an adult riding after dark without reflectors about fifteen years ago."

"Okay, so all that proves is that our puppet master is very talented."

"Oh, and speaking of electrocutions. I found something really weird. Thorncraft is off the grid, _completely_ off the grid. There are no lines at all running into there from the outside. No phone. No cable. No electricity."

"Phone and cable, I know," Dean said. "It's all cell phones and satellite dishes, but, Sam, we _have_ electricity."

"I figured you would have mentioned it if you didn't. I'm also assuming you don't have a power station tucked away in there anywhere."

"Oh, I bet we do," Dean muttered. "I bet I know exactly where it is too. It's that damned bush."

"It's technically a thicket," Castiel said. 

"Whatever. That's the center of everything--literally, figuratively--dead center."

There was a clattering sound at the other end of the phone.

"Sam? You still there?"

"Yeah." Sam sounded distracted. "It's just more fish. Look, I have to go. I'll call you tomorrow."

"I just can't leave that boy alone, can I?"

***** Rice-A-Roni *****

The stew was fine so dinner was not wholly ruined, but that didn't stop Castiel from sniping at him about the rice.

"You _said_ you knew how to make rice," Castiel said, cleaning glop off the counter.

"A-Roni!" Dean snapped. "Rice- _A-Roni_. And Rice-A-Roni doesn't fight back like that. Are you sure that's not sentient? We're making the next batch with holy water."

"There's a point," Castiel said, "when your blasphemy ceases to be endearing."

Dean stared at Castiel, bent over cleaning the floor where the starchy ooze dribbled off the counter. 

"Did you just tell me to shut up?"

"Yes."

***** Burn *****

Dean waited until it got dark and then siphoned the gasoline out of the lawn mower. He also took along a can of lighter fluid, a pack of matches, and two lighters. Sam could grouse all he want on how many lighters Dean wasted, Zippos were still cheaper than his life.

"Dean, what are you doing?" Castiel had ignored him when he'd first gone out to the garage, but apparently spotted him as he'd taken his gear and started walking to the park.

"Go watch the kids," Dean said. 

Castiel continued to follow him.

"Or don't watch the kids. Probably doesn't matter. From what Sam says, their puppet master does a pretty good job of keeping them out of trouble most of the time."

"Dean, have you thought about what you're doing? You don't know that destroying the thicket will destroy the force within it. And you don't know what will happen if it does. With a handful of exceptions, these children have been possessed since birth. Since _before_ birth if your theory about the Jeffersons is correct. For all you know, the humans that you value so much are already dead and all that will be left are mindless shells."

"No. That much I do know. These people are people. Robert is an OCD dick and Haylee is a sulky teenager and Luke back there is working on a cute little foot fetish. Mary-Jane knows about Debbie's little literary secret and Robert doesn't. So that tells me that these kids, these people, are individuals. The puppet master can tug their strings, but the people are still there."

"But they've been externally guided their entire lives. Remove that and they may be helpless or even insane."

Dean walked on silently. What Castiel was asking was, _what if you make it worse?_ And he had no good answer to that other than that no one had done anything for two decades and that had definitely made it worse. If they did nothing at all now surely it would just _continue_ to grow worse. It had to end. It _had_ to.

He circled the fenced-in thorns and doused them with gasoline and lighter fluid. Castiel didn't say anything until he tossed the empty canisters aside.

"What if they die?" Castiel asked.

_Well, that's a hell of a thing to ask now, ain't it?_

"What if they can't survive without it any more than they could survive beyond its circle of influence? What if they all die?"

"Then at least it ends here," Dean said. "It's taken all the victims that it ever will. No more."

"Is your concept of freedom that much more important than life?"

"Give me liberty or give me death," Dean quoted with a wry smile. "Not quite the situation Patrick Henry had in mind, but still appropriate."

Dean flicked the lighter and stared into the flame a long moment before handing it to Castiel.

Castiel took it, but frowned at it in confusion. "What?"

"You don't think I have the right to decide this, do you? Well, ask someone who does. Ask Jimmy. There is a town here full of Jimmies. And it's growing. Ask Jimmy what you should do."

Castiel looked into the flame. At times, Dean felt, Castiel was inexplicably childlike; he looked at things as if he'd never seen them before. He seemed to be examining the lighter with that childlike curiosity now. And then his face shifted. Waves of emotion that Dean couldn't read rolled over it. The only way he'd be able to describe it would be to say that _all_ emotions flashed in quick succession across Castiel's face. He looked joyful and heartbroken and frightened and angry and despairing. Within seconds, his face was back to the inscrutable mask that _was_ Castiel. He looked at Dean and then threw the Zippo into the tangle of thorny branches.

Dean fought back a shiver as he watched the fire race up into the night. He braced himself for the screams, was half-sure they'd just killed every child in Thorncraft and knew he hadn't spent enough years in hell yet to pay for that. 

There were no screams. No one sounded the alarm. If all the little children were going up in flames, they should hear something, but there was nothing but the gentle crackle of the fire as it licked around the trees. For a fraction of a second, Dean was relieved, but only a fraction. The emotion that replaced relief was shock and that gave way soon enough to anger. 

"Castiel," he said through gritted teeth, "so help me, if your guy is behind this, I'm joining up with Lucifer to kick his ass. You hear me?"

"This is not the work of God," Castiel said.

"We got a burning bush on our hands here is what we got," Dean said. The gasoline was burning off as he spoke though and the fire was sputtering down, flaring up briefly with the occasional spark as another drop or two of unburnt gasoline was touched off. The wood itself remained unscorched.

"Technically it's a thicket," Castiel said.

"All right, Mr. Magical Burning Thicket!" Dean screamed. Castiel tried to shush him, but he shrugged it off. "I understand you take requests! Well, here's my prayer! End this! Set my people free!"

"Dean, do you recall me saying your blasphemy was no longer endearing. This would be another example."

"No, this is not blasphemy. This is the opposite of blasphemy. It's no wonder these people so loyally sacrifice their children to this god. They have a god who actually answers prayers. Lickety split even. So, I pray again, Almighty _Thicket_ , free the children and end this."

Dean stalked off back home to his third shower of the day. He later found out Castiel had carefully retrieved the gas can, the empty bottle of lighter fluid, and even the Zippo.

***** The Other Guy *****

Dean woke up sluggishly. He was aware of the hand shaking his shoulder, but only enough to be annoyed by it at first. The most important thing was sleep. Everything else would sort itself out in the morning if he could just be allowed to sleep.

The shaking grew more insistent. Dean whined in protest. He hated whining, his own whining most of all. "What?"

He was so tired, it was almost painful. He rolled over and slapped ineffectually at the air where he had more or less judged the source of his annoyance was, but his hands flapped in empty space.

"Dean, we need to talk."

Dean tried to decide if Castiel was the one speaking or Jimmy. If Castiel, it could wait until the damned morning. If Jimmy, then he guessed he should try and be a little more forgiving. Jimmy only seemed to be able to take control in the wee hours.

Dean reached out and finally connected with a chest covered only in a T-shirt. That was one vote for Jimmy. Castiel stubbornly wore his flannel pajamas the same way he wore his suit and overcoat, like a uniform that must be donned regardless of the weather.

"Hey, Jimmy," he whispered.

"I need you to be awake for this," Jimmy said.

And suddenly Dean, or at least a very important part of Dean, was awake because _this_ implied something that one should be awake for. "Mwake," he said.

Jimmy's hand was on his face now, strong but gentle. He couldn't see in the dark, but he could sense him, hear him, feel the warmth of him, just inches away.

"We need to talk. Are you really awake?"

Jimmy tapped the side of his face once more.

"I'm awake," Dean insisted, tugging on the T-shirt. "Earlier, I kind of got the impression that Cas would be okay with this." Had he said the wrong thing again? "I mean, you know, that _everyone_ involved is okay with this."

"That's nice," Jimmy said. "But it's not happening."

Dean frowned into the darkness. "Why not?"

"Dean, I didn't wake you up to fool around. I woke you up to talk. A little more coherence would be appreciated." He poked at Dean's chest again. "Are you _awake_?"

"I'm awake," Dean said, batting away Jimmy's hand. The question repeated in his head, _why not?_ Jimmy's the one who's supposed to be gay ergo Dean was the one who played hard to get. Someone was getting their signals crossed here.

"Dean, you've been throwing my name around a lot lately and I think there are a few things we need to understand. Are you listening?"

"I'm listening."

"What did I just say?"

"Thou shalt not take Jimmy's name in vain."

"Close enough. Next important point. I _am_ fighting. Castiel would have been long gone from Thorncraft if _I_ hadn't stopped him so I'd be grateful for a little more appreciation and a little less nagging."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to sound critical."

"And finally. You're cute, Dean Winchester, but you're not _that_ cute."

There was silence and then Jimmy poked him once in the chest again. "Repeat."

"I'm not cute enough for what?" Dean was very confused now.

"If you ever want to try this sometime without the teasing or the mind games or the simultaneous arguments with Castiel, you can just consider that you have an open invitation. Got that?"

"So, you _do_ want to fool around?" Very, _very_ confused.

"Pay attention. This is the important part."

"I'm paying attention."

"If you think I'm going to follow you around like a love-sick puppy dog and roll over every time you snap your fingers," Jimmy said as he poked Dean once more in the chest for emphasis. He leaned in and said the rest loudly into Dean's ear, "you're confusing me with the other guy."

Dean could literally hear a cricket chirping outside the bedroom window. He could still feel Jimmy's breath inches from his face where he hovered waiting.

" _Castiel_ is the love-sick puppy dog?" Dean finally asked.

"And, frankly, it's a little nauseating."

Jimmy rolled over and went to sleep. As it happened, those were the last words Jimmy ever spoke to him.

**end chapter nine**


	10. Chapter 10

***** Answered Prayers *****

Jimmy or Castiel or whoever he was when they were both asleep was breathing evenly. Dean listened to him and envied his ability to drift back to sleep so easily. Normally Dean was the master of the power nap. A hunter prone to insomnia was a hunter who _never_ slept. You grabbed shut-eye where you could get it. Tonight, it wasn't happening. He was angry and frustrated and frightened by his own helplessness and, if all of that weren't bad enough, he was also a little horny--which particularly annoyed him, because Cas wasn't _that_ cute either. This was not the sort of thing that normally kept him up at night.

He was thus already awake when the doorbell rang. Castiel sat up and, without a hint of groggy fumbling, grabbed his flannel pajama shirt from the bedpost and slipped it on. Castiel was already heading for the door while Dean was still trying to find his bathrobe.

Dean wrapped the robe modestly around himself and glanced at the kids' closed door as he passed. No sound at all to indicate they'd been disturbed. Perfect fake children.

Castiel opened the door and then turned back to Dean. He tilted his head in the direction of the open door without comment. Dean hurried to see who it was, somehow half-expecting to see Sam had turned up in the middle of the night. He certainly couldn't think who else would be ringing the doorbell at--quick glance at the clock--three freakin'o'clock in the morning.

It was Mary-Jane Jones. She smiled at them nervously. "Hi."

"Hi," they both answered.

"What are you doing here?" Dean asked.

And then she said the words that would normally make a slightly horny guy swoon to hear a beautiful woman say. They made Dean a little queasy.

"I'm here to answer your prayers."

"Excuse me?"

"Can I come in?"

Dean and Castiel stared at each other dumbly.

She sighed. "I'm not a vampire. I don't actually have to have your permission. I'm just being polite."

Dean shrugged and waved her in.

"So, what exactly--"

"Oh, cut the crap. You're not like the other humans. Let's not be coy about it. Okay?"

"Okay."

"So, what is he?" she whispered to Dean nodding at Castiel. 

"He's a cartoonist."

"No, really. What is he? His aura almost sparkles."

Castiel frowned at her.

"Whatever you do," Dean said, "don't tell Heather Harrison that."

"Oh, get out! He's an angel? For real? Did you screw her? Heather will explode with glee if she's pregnant with an angel baby."

"I did not have sex with Mrs. Harrison," Castiel said.

"Oh, poor thing, so close. We never tell her. Agreed. Okay, so you're an angel and you're a what?" She examined Dean up and down and he tugged his bathrobe closer around himself although his reason for modesty was fading quickly now. "Because you read almost normal, but not really. Y'know?"

"I," Dean said with as much dignity as he could muster in his robe and slippers, "am a demon hunter."

"Is that like a demon who hunts?" she asked suspiciously.

"It's a human who hunts demons," Castiel said.

"Oh, good," she said brightening back up again. "I don't like demons. I have gates to keep those sons of bitches out."

"We noticed that, yeah. Is that what's messing with Cas?"

She nodded. "I suppose. Angels. Demons. Practically the same thing, right? Just a different uniform."

"It's more complicated than--" 

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "That's it exactly. So, how's it work? Does Cas have to be outside the gates to restore his powers or can we just open the gates?"

"I'll admit I'm surprised he made it in at all. As soon as the gates closed behind you, you should have been shut down, helpless as a mortal."

"I was," Castiel agreed. "I am."

She tilted her head to one side and stared at him intently. "But your vessel should have been able to cast you out with barely a struggle."

Castiel nodded, but turned to Dean to answer. "Jimmy knows we have to succeed. To save the world. To save his daughter. He's in this voluntarily."

"Okay, so Castiel is an angel. I'm a hunter. What are you? A dryad?"

"I suppose you could say that. For the last two or three thousand years, I've been pretty much a dryad. Even before I got stuck here all bristley." She stuck her fingers out in all directions. "And, really, the thorn look is _so_ two thousand years ago. I'm really more of a creeping vine kind of girl. Shallow roots. On the go. You know what I think would be fun?"

Dean shook his head. This conversation _might_ have made more sense if he'd had a full night's sleep to back it up, but he doubted it.

"I think it would be neat to be a tumbleweed. Just for a little while. Like a vacation. Do you have any idea how long I've been stuck _here_?"

"Thorncraft is very pretty," Dean said, somewhat unclear on why he was trying to cheer the dryad up. "I love what you've done with the place."

"You know what's wrong with it though."

"The children are all puppets who burst into flames when they try to leave."

"It's in _Illinois_. Have you ever been to Greece? Ocean views that would make you cry. And I've been rooted in Illinois for over a hundred years."

"Also, flaming puppet children. Just saying."

"That was not me," she insisted. "At least not me-on-purpose me. I don't even understand how that happened. Uncontrolled energy discharge or something. I don't know. Physicists have never really been my area. Poets and writers mainly. The occasional sculptor. No physicists. Okay, one chemist _once_ , but that didn't end well. It turns out creative inspiration and reactive chemicals are not always a good mix." She added in a whisper to Castiel, "He was missing a lot more than an eyebrow after that. And I had _no idea_ what the Jeffersons were planning. I was literally in the dark on that one. And the truck, I never saw that truck. Paulie was just riding a bicycle minding his business and whamo. It was just there. And I know what you're going to say. Please, spare me the lecture. I've been listening to Robert go on and on about this since it happened. Paulie Baxter ran the stop sign, but seriously no one pays attention to the stop signs except Robert and he's the one who put them up. Anyway, HAT is going to start fining people for running stop signs, including bicyclists, oh, and also people who jaywalk while texting. Annie Muller saw what almost happened to you and she's a snitch."

Dean had been waiting for her to come up for air and when it was finally obvious that she never would, he just dove in. "What's your name? Because obviously we're not talking to Mary-Jane right now."

"Well, you kind of are. She's been here the longest, not counting Robert who is _so boring_." She rolled her eyes. "She doesn't have much of anyone to talk to and so we've sort of become besties. I can get inside her head easier than anyone else's."

"If you don't like Robert, why are you marrying Robert? I mean, why is _she_ marrying Robert?"

She shrugged. "Not a lot of options. The younger kids, they'll have options, but Robert and Mary-Jane are kind of it for the first batch. And the vibrator just isn't doing the trick any more."

"Thank you for sharing. What's your name?"

"Thalia. Pleased to meet you." She held out her hand and Dean shook it limply.

"Thalia, the Muse of Comedy?" Castiel asked.

"Of _course_ you are!" Dean spluttered, jerking out of the handshake.

"Not ha-ha comedy," she explained. "Boy-gets-girl comedy, opposite of tragedy. Or boy-gets-boy, that's not new either. Girl-gets-girl, lots of options."

"Muses aren't dryads," Dean protested.

"Although the earliest legends often equated the muses with nymphs," Castiel said.

"That's water not trees," Dean said.

"And who makes it rain on Tuesdays and Thursdays?" Thalia said brightly. "Water. Plants. On a spiritual level, there's not that much difference and a dryad is technically a nymph in a tree, so there's a lot of overlap in the terminology."

"So, what's with the kids?"

"What's with what kids?" she asked.

"What is with you and the kids? I don't recall anything about nymphs or dryads or muses requiring child sacrifices."

"What sacrifice? I told you, the fire thing, totally not my fault. I think that's a side effect of the binding spell since it's only ever happened at the edge of my range."

"But you insist on people having kids for you."

"I insist nothing. Ever. I'm a muse. Muses _suggest_. We don't insist. And I never even suggested. That's just Robert. Robert writes all the rules around here. He's the director of the academy. Not a teacher or a principal, mind you. That would involve having actual contact with the students. And children, despite my very best efforts, are still sticky. Robert is not having with the sticky. No, he's just the director. He writes the academic objectives and the memos and the alphabetical seating charts. And before you blame that on me, let me tell you, I have mellowed that boy out _a lot_ since he got here. You have no _idea_. So, Robert put in the bit about kids. Me, I could not care less. The kids and I, yeah, we're in synch. Like we vibrate in resonance. The ones who were born here anyway. So the kids are cool. You can't imagine how boring it was when I was alone here. But mainly the kids are just a byproduct. A side effect."

"A side effect?"

"A side effect. Yeah. You know. Boy meets girl. Girl breaks out in babies. I never meant to _trap_ any of the kids here. We just connect somehow. Young creative minds? I don't know. I think whatever is trapping me is trapping them. It's like--"

"Okay, but what's with the human lie detectors?" Dean interrupted before she went off on another tangent. 

"Art is truth. It just is. Don't ask me why. It's just a muse thing."

"Okay, but how do you--" Dean fumbled for the words. "--do everything?" 

"Excuse me?"

"The electricity without a power station. The successful money-making careers with no skills required. The kids who matched the description I made up on the fly. How?"

Thalia shrugged. "How do you blink? How do you walk? How do you toss something in the air and catch it?" She picked up a snow globe off the mantel and tossed it into the air. Before Dean knew it, two bunny mugs joined it. He didn't even remember that yesterday was delivery day. She spun them all effortlessly in the air.

"A juggling act," Castiel said with a nod.

"I believe the puppet metaphor was still more apt considering."

"I'm just pointing out--" 

"We're going to argue about this now, too?"

She stopped juggling and sighed. "Boys, let's start over. I'm here to answer your prayers." She curtsied, smiled, waited. "Ta-da?" she added.

"How?" Dean asked.

She shuffled her feet. "I was kind of hoping that you'd know that part. I mean, would I still be in central Illinois if I knew how to get out, right? I had Robert burn out a chain saw and two welders on that trap they've got me in and it just won't budge. But you're special. You're the angel and his hunter sidekick, right?"

"Hunter and his angel sidekick," Dean said.

"Whatever. You want to end this. Believe me, I want to end this. So, you have an idea how, right? Right?"

"How did you get trapped here?"

She rolled her eyes. " _Never_ trust a playwright. Seriously. They're like the movie producers of the pre-industrialized world. And, would you believe this, he was already married. So, I told him--" 

" _Short_ version!"

"And the next thing I know, I'm wrapped up in binding spells with a frigging thorn bush growing out of my head."

Dean picked up his cell phone and dialed Sam. He hadn't expected to get him at this hour, but at least figured he could leave another colorful voicemail message. Instead he got a recording. "'Not in service at this time due to weather-related outages,'" he quoted. "Does anyone know what the weather is doing in Minneapolis?"

Castiel walked over to the computer but before he could even pull up the weather site, Thalia tilted her head to one side and said, "Sixty percent chance of frogs tapering off to light tadpoles by dawn." Even she seemed a bit dubious about this.

"Okay, so obviously Sammy's a bit busy right now. We are on our own. But that's okay. We can do this."

"Dean, we should probably--" 

"No, no. We _can_ do this. I have an idea. This is basic magic. Thalia, question. Robert is a neurotic rule follower, yes? And he's the only guy here even close to Mary-Jane's age as you pointed out. So...you're a virgin?"

"Oh, honey, that armada sailed millennia--oh! You mean Mary-Jane? Yeah, totally."

"Dean, you know that doesn't--" Dean shushed Castiel before he could finish.

"We need to gather up a few things, holy water, incense, um, clothing. Clothing is important. It's hard to do really big magic in flannel."

"Why?" Castiel asked.

"Because flannel has a well-known dampening effect. Shut up."

"Should I change, too?" she asked. "Are there special magic clothes? Should I wear black or--" 

"No, no. Just the opposite. A white dress. You should put on a long white dress. Something silky or lacy. You don't happen to have something like that lying around, do you?"

"Duh."

"Exactly. You go and get your white dress, a spool of red thread, and a potted plant."

"Red thread?"

Dean walked over to the sewing machine and picked up a nearby spool of thread. "Here. Red thread."

"Okay, white dress, red thread, and a potted plant. Any special kind of plant?" she asked.

"Just a living plant rooted in a pot that's mobile."

"Right!" She smiled broadly. "White dress, red thread, potted plant. Anything else?"

"Blood of a virgin. But you'll have that with you. So, just don't screw anyone on your way to the park and we'll meet you there."

"I think I can manage that," she said. "The blood part, that won't hurt will it?"

"Just a little pin prick. No worries. One more thing. When we give the word, can you open the gates? All four of them? All the way?"

"Sure. No sweat."

"All right. Go. Hurry. We have to be ready before sunrise."

She nodded and rushed out the door. Dean closed it behind her and turned to find Castiel glaring at him with his arms folded. He would have been an imposing figure if it weren't for the pajamas.

"You made all that up," Castiel said.

"Yes. Every word. But seriously, you need to get dressed, because we are not pulling this off with you in your jam-jams."

Castiel followed Dean into the bedroom. "Dean, you cannot just make up rituals like this."

"Yes. Yes, you can." Dean decided that for full magical power, he should have on non-sweaty underwear. He slipped on a fresh pair fully aware that Castiel was staring at him while he got dressed. 

Of course, Castiel chose _that_ moment to, well, be Castiel. "We should probably talk about the lingering sexual attraction between us. Now that Jimmy's orientation is no longer a secret, I believe it opens new options. Despite your insistence on adhering to heteronormative language and behavior patterns, you've been surprisingly responsive to physical intimacy." 

Dean ignored him. "Remember what you said before about sex and virginity, about how the most important thing was human belief? Well, you're full of crap. Human belief means next to diddly squat. Humans believe all manner of bull without making it real. And there is no human more superstitious than a gambler and most of them still walk out of the casino considerably poorer for the experience. No, it's not _human_ belief that makes magic. It's the belief of magical creatures. It's what the angels believe, what the demons believe, what the muses and dryads and fairy godmothers believe. _She_ believes this will work. It will work."

"Lingering sexual attraction?" Castiel repeated, but he didn't even sound hopeful, just resigned. 

"A little busy saving the day at the moment. Maybe we can talk about it later."

"Unlikely. We never do."

"Get dressed. No flannel. No plaid."

Castiel nodded and walked to the closet.

"And don't wear that stupid orange shirt. It makes you look like a popsicle."

***** Ending This *****

Dean expected to find her waiting for them by the time they'd changed and gathered up the random bits of things that seemed poetic enough to fit. Holy water. Silver dagger. Incense. Zippo.

Castiel was back in uniform. Suit. Tie. Overcoat. 

She wasn't there yet. He should have realized you couldn't send a woman off with instructions to get into her wedding dress and expect her to be timely about it. He had horrible visions of her spending the next two hours curling her hair.

But, in fairness, she arrived not that much longer than they did and she was carrying a large potted plant.

"Thalia, really? Really? 'Mary-Jane?' I said pot _ted_ plant."

She smiled at the marijuana plant in her arms. "Poetic symbolism," she said. "I thought poetry would be important for this. I stole it off of Bob and Debbie's back porch. Mum's the word, by the way. Robert doesn't know. He thinks it's a rare non-flowering geranium. And I was thinking about the tumbleweed idea and, y'know, maybe later, but right now I'm thinking I've done water. I've done earth. I've done fire, unintentionally mind, you, but done that. So I was thinking _air_."

"The Muse of Comedy," Dean whispered to himself. "Definitely the Muse of Comedy."

She set the plant down and turned her back to them. "I need someone to do my buttons."

"Castiel, you are officially in charge of buttons." Dean frowned at her dress. It was--indescribable. It was almost beautiful if you liked that sort of thing, but it raised your blood sugar a little just looking at it. It was not what Dean had had in mind when he'd conjured up images of virginal blood for ritual magic. It _was_ white, in the places it wasn't bedecked in gauzy iridescent mesh that shifted colors in the lamplight from pink to purple with hints of blue and green. The skirt was massive and round. She must be full of crinolines or did she even have hoops under there? And on top of all the froth there were tiny multi-colored sprinkles. And they _were sprinkles_. Beads yes, but they looked exactly like the sugar bits that you roll a donut in for an extra dose of sugar.

She caught Dean's horrified expression. "Not one word out of you! I look like a giant cupcake. I know. Okay. There are only two dressmakers in town and I'm a muse, not a miracle worker. You suck."

Dean nodded. Anything he'd done would have been much, much uglier. And this wasn't ugly at all. It was just _festive_.

"And Rev JoJo likes it. She cries every time Mary-Jane tries it on. At least, I think in a good way. Anyway, if this works, this is the last time it'll be worn. Mary-Jane won't be sticking around, I don't think."

"Thread."

She handed him the spool of thread and he gave one end to Castiel to hold and handed the spool back to her. "Wind it around the iron work. All the way around the circle."

"What does this do?" she asked.

"It's better if you don't ask questions," Dean said. But he could see the doubt on her face so he had to come up with an answer for the question that had already been asked. "Cotton thread. Cotton is a plant. Which is stronger over time? A plant or iron?"

"A plant!" she said. Thalia swaggered a little. "Over time iron rusts. Plants keep growing."

"Right."

She returned back around the circle, twining the thread around the rail as she went, and then handed it back to Dean. He pulled out the silver dagger and cut the thread with a flourish and handed the other end to Castiel. "Now our angel has both ends," he added, in case she'd missed any symbolism. "And if you could open the gates now."

"All four?"

"All four. All the way."

Dean couldn't tell that anything had happened, but in a moment Castiel nodded. "They're open." Castiel's voice reclaimed that forceful gravel timbre that Dean always found a tiny bit comical.

"Okay, a dose of your own medicine. Prick your finger and make your wish."

Thalia did so with no noticeable hesitation and only a slight wince.

"Now, you, stand here," he motioned for her to stand with her back to the circle. "Facing the rising sun."

"The sun comes up over there," she said pointing some degrees to her left. 

"Okay, fine, stand there. Face to the sun, back to the thorns. And, this--" He almost had her hold the marijuana plant again, but at the last minute decided that a triangle made for a better symbol. He took the spool of thread and tied one end around the potted plant, looped it loosely around one thorn on the shrub, looped it around her ring finger and then completed the triangle by tying it off around the potted plant. Once more he flourished the silver dagger, making sure she noted how mystical it looked, and cut the end of the thread. He sprinkled her and both plants with holy water--only a little since he didn't want to waste his supply.

"Is this like a marriage ceremony?" she asked looking at the thread around her finger.

"More like a divorce," he said.

She nodded. "Now what?"

"Now we wait." Dean glanced at his watch. He hoped he hadn't misjudged sunrise. The first rays should be rising before too much longer. "A little Latin for ambiance maybe," he suggested to Castiel.

"I _could_ have done this in pajamas," Castiel said under his breath. But he continued to hold his ends of the thread and began chanting in Latin. 

After a few minutes, she said, "I know this one. I think I dated the guy who wrote this. He was a drag."

"Different chant maybe," Dean suggested and Castiel veered off into another toneless drone.

And the sun began to rise. She stared at the horizon expectantly as the first rays filtered through the hedgerow. Dean decided that one more huzzah was called for.

"Now!" he said and flicked on his Zippo. He lit all three sides of the thread tying her to the plants and she watched over her shoulder as the thread quickly burned away. Dean nodded at Castiel who sent shimmering lines down his threads, engulfing the circle, the iron of which actually appeared to be melting. The small thicket of thorn trees wilted slightly. Even when in the best of health, the plants already looked nearly dead to Dean, so he had no idea if the slight sagging was significant.

"And you're free," Dean said. 

She cocked her head to one side for a long time as if listening for something. And then suddenly she turned and ran. Out of the garden, out of the park, across the street, and then right down the center of Mulberry Street, she ran.

Dean started after her, but Castiel called after him. "Dean, we have to check on the children."

"They can wait. They'll still be asleep."

"You don't know that. If this worked, if they're no longer under Thalia's control, then there's no telling what they could get into."

"Oh, come on, they're tiny. How much trouble could they possibly get into?"

"How much trouble did your brother get into when he was a baby?"

"Well, yeah, but Sammy was special kinds of stupid."

"Dean, all children are that stupid."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"All right, I can go after her in the van. She can't run _much_ faster than the minivan."

They went back to the house, where the girl was screaming and the boy was cheerfully smearing poop all over his crib. "So, you just handle the kids and I'll go track down Mary-Jane," Dean said, grabbing the car keys and running quickly back out the door.

He caught up to Mary-Jane less than a mile down the road. She'd stopped running and was walking along the shoulder of the road outside Thorncraft.

"You look like you could use a lift," Dean said when he pulled up alongside her.

She nodded wearily. "These boots were _not_ made for walkin'."

"Hop in."

"I don't think I'll fit," she said, but she climbed in and eventually got most of her ruffles and whatnot stuffed inside the vehicle. A few bits flapped outside the door in the breeze, but she didn't look like she cared.

"So, breakfast?"

She nodded. "I could go for breakfast."

"Denny's Grand Slam?"

"I was thinking maybe I could try an Egg McMuffin," she said.

Dean nodded, but bit his lip. "Um."

"Maybe we should park at the Denny's," she agreed. "And walk that last little bit."

"Good plan."

He wondered what people made of the bride walking along the highway junction to get to the McDonald's. When they got to that spot where Haylee had once turned back, she stopped, took a deep breath, and slowly shuffled forward. And then she took a slow full stride. And then another. And then she laughed and was running again.

The kids behind the counter at the McDonald's stared at her and one of them finally asked, "Getting married?" but she just smiled and said, "Nope." Then she turned to Dean and said, "You're paying, right? I don't have pockets in this thing."

Dean bought her a McMuffin and a coffee and hashbrowns and they sat and ate at the tables out front by the Playland which held no children this early in the morning.

"She was really an ancient goddess or something?" Mary-Jane asked.

"Something like that. You didn't know?"

"Until last night, I didn't even know she existed. Not really existed. There were times over the years when I'd watch myself doing something without really knowing why. Or I'd _want_ to do something and I just _couldn't_. That was really frustrating. But, I never realized there was someone else actually controlling me. I thought, I guess I thought I was just a little crazy. But this Thalia was trapped--" Her eyes widened and she put down her coffee abruptly. "Oh, God, did we just leave her inside a marijuana plant in the center of town?" she whispered.

"Castiel has the plant. I don't think she's trapped anymore anyway, but we promise to roll her up and hand her out to as many traveling hippies as we can just in case."

Mary-Jane laughed. She toasted him with her coffee cup, "To air!"

"To air!"

***** Epilogue *****

"Leia, you have to get dressed," Castiel said.

"My name is Leah!" she shrieked. "Lee-Uh."

"You still have to get dressed."

Dean closed the door on them and walked back to the living room. "Are you sure she'll be okay? It's not like raising, well--"

Debbie Jones laughed. "Oh, honey, Robbie was a holy terror before we moved here. This little girl is a princess. She just wants to make sure everyone knows how that princess's name is pronounced. That's her right."

Dean nodded guiltily. 

"Bob and I are looking forward to the foster parent gig. It will be a nice change of pace." Debbie's smile faded slightly from bright sunshine to merely wistful. "I don't know exactly what happened here, but when it happened, it was a godsend. And now that it's stopped happening, well, there's some folks who'll be a bit cranky, especially until we get the power connected out here, but they'll all get over it. Or else they'll move away. That's the way the world is."

"I'm afraid we may have ruined a few careers. Not a lot of professional poetry jobs out there." Dean didn't exactly feel guilty about that, defensive maybe, but not guilty. He'd already had to resist snapping at a harried father at the corner store that morning. The man couldn't understand what had _gotten into_ his kids all of a sudden. Dean wanted to yell at the jerk, "I do: they're kids!" But very few people had connected the power outage and the no-longer-perfectly-behaved children with the new neighbors and Dean thought it would be best to get out of Dodge without attracting any extra attention. 

"We've had our first casualty already, the cupcake shop."

"Ouch. The cupcake shop?"

Debbie nodded. "They took out a pretty hefty start-up loan with no tangible collateral since the storefront itself is a rental. The man from the bank was initially quite charmed by their business plan."

"Charmed in the literal sense of the word," Dean added.

"But when he came out to discuss a requested extension..."

"The spell had worn off."

"Exactly. And I got the call from my agent. Thorncraft Publishing's contract with the national distributor won't be renewed. Apparently it's no longer cost-effective to market limited-interest books on such a wide scale."

"Sorry about that."

"No worries. Seth's taking it the hardest. He really thought that bunny book was his ticket to fame."

Dean tried to look sympathetic, but he was pretty sure he was failing. "God, those were stupid-looking bunnies," he muttered.

"John Metzger, meanwhile, wasn't even phased. He's got a two-hundred- thousand-word manuscript on lamp posts that he just shipped off to a vanity publisher. He doesn't even seem to care that this one's going to lose money. Mind you, Sandra is ready to bean him with it."

"The Great Thorncraft Recession begins."

"It might not be that bad. This was a place of ideas. Our muse has gone away, so the ideas are drying up, but it may take a while for it all to wind down. Anne VanderWeyden borrowed your idea and sent free dresses to a couple of young starlets. Now she has orders. I guess Ms. Appleton was right. Anything is fashion if the right people wear it."

"Ms. Appleton took Luke back this morning," Dean said. "She was amazed at how healthy and happy he is. Says they'll have no trouble finding a family to adopt him now. You don't think Leia, I mean Leah, will miss him?"

"She calls him Poop-Face," Debbie said. "I don't think they exactly had time to bond."

"How's Rob holding up?"

"Poor thing. I tore up the damned contract and told him, married or not, he had to move out to his own place. He was driving me batty. He's at a complete loss without her."

"He never had much of a Plan B for life without Mary-Jane, did he?"

"Oh, not her. I mean, you know, _her_. He was our little dictator, I suppose. No one knew why, just like no one really knows why they don't pay him any attention now, but he senses it and he's beside himself. He's written more memos in the last thirty-six hours than in the last year."

"Yeah, I tagged his name in my spam filter," Dean said.

"Me too," Debbie admitted. She held the door for him as he carried his bags out the front door. "So where are you boys off to now?"

Dean loaded the last of his belongings, his real belongings that he planned to keep, into the minivan. "We are off to save Minneapolis."

"What's wrong with Minneapolis?"

"I'm not sure, but I think my brother broke it. Cas! Are you coming?"

Castiel walked out of the house and handed the struggling and still only half-dressed child to Debbie. Leah stuck her tongue out and blew them a raspberry as they pulled out of the drive. Debbie laughed and waved.

They drove out of Thorncraft's permanently open gates and chugged down the road in second gear. "Cas, I try not to take advantage of the angel powers for frivolous stuff, but Minneapolis is a hell of a long way away in second gear. Can you do anything about this transmission."

Castiel held out one hand indifferently and in a moment, the engine revved and the ride smoothed out. Dean shifted it into drive and felt the automatic transmission take them up the extra gears. 

"Now can you do something about the color?" he asked.

There was silence and he turned and looked at the empty passenger seat.

"I hate it when he does that."

Dean turned north on the highway and aimed the minivan in the general direction of Minneapolis.

**THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> I realize this is not the ending some of you may have wished for, but it was written for [a specific prompt](http://tropeathon.livejournal.com/650.html) and I refer you back to chapter one for how this particular cliché works:
> 
>   
>  **  
> _"Don't you hate that?" Dean shook his head in sympathy. "They always lead you on like that and then it never happens."_  
>  **  
> 


End file.
